And that’s how the poets from the third world, harbingers of a just world
Rebuilt the globe burnt by bombs, wars, exile and oppression
Civil war, strife and tyranny.
They uplifted it not with worn out clichés nor with empty rhetoric
Not with false promises and shallow talk.
They breathed life into the world that was almost dead
As one sprinkles water over a person collapsed suddenly in the street.
They took care of their nations, their brethren,
As one nurse their kin that has fallen sick.
They brought fruit and flowers, green from the gardens,
Filled the glass with fresh juice,
Greeted them on every day-break for a happy morning
And wished a good night with a gentle kiss on their drooping eyelids for pleasant dreams.
Then they waited on them, patiently, dozing in a reclining chair or on an iron cot
Amidst the smell of Dettol or the sick odour of pills and potion. Waking up all of a
Sudden in between, checking the time and the thermometer, they were
Looking through the hospital rooms that remind jails. They somehow spent the thick
Nights with a feeble hope of ensuing dawn, with an unquivering faith like
the prophets of the Old Testament, a Daniel, a Jerimiah, a Joshua and a Job.
I can’t call the process a sacrifice, for sacrifice is a small word.
They lived their life to the brim.
Their presence was a constant communication like a prayer that was regular and punctual.
They shouldered the burden of a fallen world with the wings of a butterfly
And took to quenching the hunger for a better life with
Five loaves of bread and two fish.
And once the sun rises and when the morning sunshine spreads around
They unwind the curtains, open the windows and tell their people
With a relieving smile
‘ Look, didn’t we tell you that everything will be alright?’
From, Punaryanam, 2004