The Last Bus

Monday, January 18, 2010

Standing barefoot.
Barren, huge crossroad.
They say it stops here,
the bus you are on.

Clutching, the doll you gave me
on my birthday the year before.
I try not to stain it –
for my hands are
bleeding from the sores.
knees skinned to the bones shake a little
cruel, lonely it was –
the road from home.

Biting my lips, to stall the pain
burying my face in the doll –
there is still that smell of you
the fragrance of safety,
the mirage of childhood.
just a bit.
Too greedy to save it all.

It starts to rain
and I feel so cold.
Proud, defying – waiting.
I stand my ground
not for victory but to
hide my shame.
The tears
drown me a bit more.
There is nothing left,
even my shadow is impure.

Its getting darker
the birds are all gone.
I watch other kids, just like me but –
jumping all the way to their homes.
Some stand and stare at my rags
laughing at my doll.
Mock my dirty feet -
but my eyes, they all ignore

And then I am left alone,
at the crossroads
just like the evening before.
I am scared now–
wont you come back for me?
the last bus from heaven,
doesn’t stop here anymore?

© 2008 by Chhaya. All rights reserved
PS: the image is googled
I wrote this poem more than a year back. I didn’t have enough readers back then so I am re-posting it.

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