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Bangladesh, the festival of lights
Children soaking in the monsoonal rains,
Object to infinitesimal delight
A bedraggled old man lugs
his barrel of insecticide bottles along
One man fleet upon the cobblestones
- in sorrow, he roams
When the rickshaw wallah comes home,
legs rest on the repellent crate
How can he be a grandfather and cope?
If he swallows he'll choke from the particle smoke
An unseen, unbreathable mist shrouding his living quarters
He marches on, yet he's becoming too fragile to deliver orders
Barely makes a living, quarters,
Goes home with some kebab and a little bourbon
Home sweet home is an overhang shed and a plastic mat
The slums are where you can find him
- pulling wagons by the taxi cabs
He'd have a wife and children but
he couldn't give a woman a pack of maxi pads
If you question the death rate, envision every possible lead fume -
He'd invite guests over,
but his living room is also his kitchen, closet and bed too
Meager cup of tea from a cold keg,
won't beg, it's against his religion
He won't go to pray at the city temple -
You've gotta pay to get past the fence at the entrance
Read or write?
Most doubt he could even wrestle a sentence, confess to redemption
In the broad India daylight
- you can see his wrenching intestines
The rewards reaped?
A silk shirt, tobacco pipe, and mildew sod
What has he done to be forsaken by these Hindu gods?
These are the facts of life,
his bruised wounds bleed cumin seed fusion
When he dies, his cheap loot will go to free union -
And from there?
In the afterlife, he says, he doesn't know, he'll reroute it
What's significant is the rule -
he knows to keep moving.