She runs through the mud
on the stagnant breeze
that drags the wavering heat,
along with the harsh suffering,
and as she passes the ramshackle huts,
cries of childbirth trickle through
the wooden slats,
each one followed by the
cries of grief and loss
that are delayed only by
months, if you are lucky.
The girl is alone, so alone,
yet she is looked upon with
an anguished jealousy
that glints from the glassy eyes
of a hundred still babies.
In a rich country,
her rarity would be valued in a large echoing hall
where wealthy people would happily bid
a thousand pounds
for an ancient vase,
useless, damaged.
Yet in Mumbai,
where she runs through the slums
like the flowing river of disease,
her life could be compared only with
the precious value
that one clean droplet of
priceless water would bring.
