Poem: A box of matches

By: Natana Vasuki

Poor liitle people
The harsh exigency of survival
Deprives them of subtle felicities of childhood
In dim-lit, lime washed rooms
Lo! The hopeless little souls…
The dream of education has long been erased
In their shades of mind
They are offered match-sticks instead of pencils
To pen their history of child labor
The teeth of poverty devour them slowly.
There is no will to change their ways
Their unwritten stories are ignored and forgotten
When leaders are busy in owing promises
And Gods are engaged in processions,
Their tiny soot-stained fingers are occupied
in Stacking matches.
To lit the dark unkind world.

Categories: Poetry

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