Bombay child

Nestled rest in crumpled filth
the child sleeps,
flung across the gutter, innocence,
abandoned; presently at peace,
she dreams of promises and
clutches the rug of oblivion.

Maya waits in patient watch
beside the dream world,
ready to rescue her charge
from the soporific arms
of the slant-eyed Goddess
who holds you, limpid,
at her breast and kisses
black, protected eyes,
bestows in beauty, visions.

Sweet whisperings invade that
tiny ear, of glorious gardens,
rich-throated birds and cities,
redolent with perfumed dreams
and riches beyond all belief.

But the Goddess cannot keep you
in this world beyond waking,
when and as she chooses. She must
sweep her glittering phantasms
to the squalid edge, and rub
those kohl-rimmed eyes
in gritty daylight,
when truth dictates.

So sleep, small girl child,
the time is short for sweetness
and the gutter makes
resplendent bed, for this
brief, shining moment.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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