26-11

Do you speak the language of the rain?
If you do, please tell me what it’s saying.
Doesn’t it seem a little sad and melancholy today?
Does it also remember what happened on this day?

Are these raindrops but tears shed for those who were killed,
for the brave and innocent, our guardians and friends?
Do they wish to drown the heartless, who with hatred filled
the hearts of the gullible to achieve their ends?

Do these dark clouds seek to remind us of the terrible past?
Are they just passing through, or are they here to last?
Is the restless, rustling wind struggling to explain,
the solitude of sorrow and the pensiveness of pain?

Does the thunder talk of plunder?
Of cold blooded killings and surrender?
Of the destruction of timeless beauty and traditions,
Of meaningless hate and purposeless missions?

Does the Sun hide behind the clouds in shame
as we continue to blame the pawns in the game,
while the kings move around freely as before,
devising their devious machinations and more?

Will we remember this day only to forget?
Or will it remind us that there is hope, yet?
That bravery, courage and valor are not dead;
they are just soldiers waiting to be led.

– Sharan Rao

I’M ALRIGHT

Things will be okay, I hear everyone say,
But though the prices are rising, my wages are not;
Even the mice that stayed here have run away,
For a loaf of bread is all the food I’ve got.

I was told in a dream, just this afternoon,
That I need not worry about dying anytime soon,
For Heaven is overbooked, there isn’t a single available berth,
And Hell has been reserved for the policy-makers on Earth.

My wife is weeping, the floor needs sweeping,
But the broom was sold last week for a bowl of rice,
And all my possessions are in the landlord’s keeping,
For everything, even memories, can be sold for a price.

But these bad times will pass, they say,
And Frankenstein’s monster will go away;
But I fear that Dracula will take his place,
And Mr. Hyde will show his face.

I’m used to this, I’m alright, I’m okay,
But I wonder if the greedy and corrupt know,
That by exploiting others in this way,
It is the seeds of their own destruction that they sow.

Because, for every silver platter that may shine,
In the palaces of gold where the rich do dine;
It is the poor, who with their hands of grime,
Have wiped away the mud and slime.

– Written in 2011

THE SOCIAL WORKER’S TALE

As I walk on, I feel a cold wind blow,
I hear a distant cry, sad and slow;
I walk through mud, and filthy lanes,
Filled with broken hearts and shattered panes.

As I hear the distant sound of thunder,
I watch the day to darkness surrender.
I meet those, whose vacant smiles do not conceal,
The dismal, deep-rooted distress they feel.

I want to free them from the constrictive chain,
That binds them to the pain their hearts contain;
For they have invited vagabond fears home to stay,
While halcyons of hope have been driven far away.

I wish I had a magic spray,
To erase every hidden fear,
Or an enchanted towel, to wipe away
Every silent, unshed tear.

Is there an end in sight? Is there a cure?
Or is their sorrow meant to endure?
I have no answers, but I put in my very best,
In the hope that, someday, their troubles will be laid to rest.

–Written in 2008