By Rosha Sandesh
Gutters on skin, sticks for bones,
she walks weakly on land that groans.
Years-old plastics become her shoes,
sharp edges carving her soft toes.
She scavenges for food—maybe a crop,
water at least, at least just a drop.
A puddle in sight exists, though small,
grey water scooped up, lithium and all.
She takes a sip—metallic it tastes—
but drinks it all, rather not waste.
Lead drips down her famished throat;
her cells glow now—there’s no antidote.
She takes home drinks for all,
so toothless Dad would no longer fall.
As all drink computer water,
their tin home turns just a little hotter.
Dad says bye—death calls his name—
one final regret: himself to blame.
If only Dad, and Dad’s dad, planted a tree,
how much safer would his little girl be?
If only he stopped digging for fuel,
the world would not have turned cruel.
Instead—soulless deeds—so now, one deep down,
his son says bye, and next, a grave for his own.
Grandfather, father, daughter, and son
all die in line with each new dawn.
when last child goes, the land shall breathe,
and her vast plains shall finally be wreathed.