India
the people
sprang from the earth
along with the trees
and flowers
filled with the sweetness
of a sunrise
a simple sensuality
a fragrant nectar
at the core of their being
evaporated
in the early hours of youth
bitter tears etch gullies
in the smooth voluptuousness
of copper skin framed
in raven curls
like the arid crevices
in the ancient land
the corruption of the dust
cloaks the brightness of their clothing
as the water which was given to nurture all life
spreads invisible messengers of death
through the bodies of their children
but now
after merciless eternity
a cry for change
like the trumpet of gabriel
pierces the heart
and shakes the foundation
of desolate mountains
the sword of shiva
can no longer be restrained
for chaos is the mother of change
but every drop of blood
which shall be shed
the cry of every child
who goes hungry
every word
spoken in harshness
between man and wife
out of despair
every journey interrupted
shall be visited upon the souls of the fortunate
who believe that those with nothing
should be content
and who fail to yield with grace
as the goddess exhales
©2001 Phil Cohenillustrated by Patricia Ford
