INSIDE THE RUBICON-A poem by Rajababu
The didactic Orissa refugee-distended,
In the tatters of his rural confines;
Lusts at my safe ensconsement.
A fact made possible by my worthy ancestors;
Working over their trade on dusty Bombay afternoons,
Beating away the somnolescent vestiges of ravaging time.
Suckling away on the paradox,
Ashamed of self in private-like a rejected whore;
I suck away at my melting Softy.
I look around for a straw to clutch,
To row my way to the dangerous shore;
Business traders work on their every trade like their God,
Unlike me, who thrives on superficial triviality,
The leucoderma affected woman is too embarrassed-
To step out in the hot sun, dermis meets pigment
In a diseased version of a so-called Hindutva.
The crowds are begging at the sky for food,
Aerial surveys do nothing to relieve their impoverished lineage.
The women rent their breasts in a flood of tears,
The children suckle away at malnourished nipples,
Tired, and unsuccessful, they go to sleep hungry,
The tribal folk are enemies in this race to food,
They live an uncertain life,
They’ll step into the Rubicon for a certain death.