The Ragpicker Boy

Who is the little boy with a sack
On his rag covered back
With hunger and lack
Written on his face
His dark complexion
Speaks of hard work done
In the society, liked by none
In a smelly smutty place

Cuts and bruises on his feet
Tied with a dirty torn sheet
Risking glass, nails and heat
Wrapped in deathly balls
For a morsel of cheap rice
Such a howling heavy price
He throws on daily game of dice
To answer life’s challenging calls

What is a school or a dream?
What is a class or a team?
What is a cake topped with cream?
His life is held by the garbage heap
His father is not on the earth
His mother toils and tends the hearth
He’s carrying his human birth
To vend it on the street cheap


Kings and queen come and go
His lot is to remain low
Whichever way the winds blow
He sleeps on the cold floor
The fence has umpteen holes
Supported by rickety poles
He is visited by moles
Lady Luck never opens the door.

                    ***

The Road Beside Our House

By Xavier Bage, 25th Mar 2013 |Posted in Wikinut

There used to be a single-lane road beside our home. It was a peaceful road, just right for morning and evening walks. In course of time, the road has undergone a drastic change in nature and appearance. It is now a devouring road.

The Blood Thirsty Road

This road used to be a single lane passage,
Joining a railway head with a border village.
Just one bus passed this way lazily once a day
It was just right for a walk, so the seniors say.
Silence sat on both sides on thoughtful trees,
Friendly branches offered rest to honey bees.

As the sun slipped behind stirring crimson light,
Chirpy birds hid within leaves to spend the night.
Groups of children played in the nearby ground,
Filling the air with cheerful and musical sound.
Gossiping girls walked peacefully here and there,
As their parents discussed domestic topics of care.

The time moved forward sure and quiet in pace,
It brought about changes on the silent road’s face.
Loaded buses two, then vehicles three and four,
As the railway station proved the city’s money door.
More rickshaws, more bicycles rolled up and down,
Trampling the road, town to village, village to town.

The road has been widened now three times over,
Swallowing the restful and affectionate trees’ cover.
And the many lives and blood that it has devoured,
Spirits of the dead in accidents shiver beside, cowered.
Silence has fled in panic to the faraway hilly woods,
As honking trucks fly roaring, tearing, bearing goods.

                               ***