The Periphery

It is a poem that captures the aspect of rural and urban poverty.

At the centre of all worldly things

The fast humming cars, the fitting bright clothes

That makes men mad for women

And women swoon for men

Our tables, our chairs, our books

Our wallets and all that we call ours

Lies the toil, sweat and labor

The blackened hands, the bonny bodies

Whom we cast out of our existence

They have nothing to call ‘their own’

 

At the center of all our gourmet pleasures

Our sandwiches, our steaks, our coca-cola bottles

Our lollipops, our ice-creams, our candies

Lies the broken backs of farmers

Their corpses hanging with a noose around their necks

And those left, still toil for us

In villages we never wish to visit

 We live at the centre

Where all the movie stars do

Where all the glamour is

We want to go to malls

And be surrounded by friends

Who have the same things we do

We want lovers dressed in fine clothes

Who take us to fine restaurants

And as we pass in our fast cars

We see the orphan children of the farmers

Begging on the streets for food

 

Our friends toss a sandwich from the car

And watch the hungry children fight

For our own pleasure

 

How much pleasure can we afford

At the cost of those not at the center?

A day will surely come 

When red brick walls would rise

From the periphery; walls of resistance

That will imprison us in our own needs.