The Power of Black – Poems on Humanity , Social Cause , Poverty , Women Empowerment – Volume 1 by Nikhil Parekh - HTML preview

22. SLUM CHILDREN 

We might be poor; but our hearts are undoubtedly richer than the rest,

We might be squalidly attired; but the blood flowing through our veins is purer than the most crystalline of stream,

We might be wandering on foot; but our speed is more than the swankiest of cars,

We might brush our teeth with raw bamboo sticks; but our jaws can easily squelch the toughest of steel,

We might smell of perspiration under the sun; but our bodies are endowed with a heavenly odor,

We might sleep under the open sky; but generate more warmth than

the contemporary room heater,

We might not posses grandiloquent pens; but can evolve mystical designs with our bohemian fingers,

We might eat with spoons and forks; but enjoy each edible meal to our hearts content,

We might not bathe under mineral water; but relish our swim in the exotic rivers,

We might not possess sunglasses of exquisite quality tint; but have the tenacity to stare the sun right in its eyes,

We might not have luxurious school bags to stash our books; but cherish the privilege of carrying them in our hands,

We might not speak in bombastic slang; but have the power to perceive beyond the great sea's,

We might not have a flurry of servants to wipe our tears; but have enormous fortitude to hold them back,

We might never have flown in an aircraft; but have soared higher than anybody else in the clouds; in our dreams,

We might not be able to apply jam on our breads; but are happy to eat it with the soil of our motherland coated on its surface,

We might not resemble a Hollywood star; but the radiance we emanate is more stringent than the day,

We might not have millions of dollars incarcerated in the bank; but have indeed the blessing of God; the love of our mother to resurrect our broken lives,

We might not use perfumed shampoo; but still our hair shine marvelously under the moon,

We might not have golden roads to traverse on all day; but still come out resurgent; alive from the blazing fires,

We might be adorned in shabby rags; but our barren skin doesn’t mind being penetrated by the most acerbic of thorns,

We might have pangs of hunger reverberating in our stomach; but are capable of facing the entire army single handed,

And people might christen us as slum children glaring us each minute with contemptuous stares; but we consider our huts as the most colossal of palace;

with each granule of mud impregnated in its walls giving us a scent of our perseverance; the essence of our motherland