POETRY (CARDBOARD HOMES)

CARDBOARD HOMES
BY: Nasser Yousaf


At eight or twelve or ten
Fun aplenty is always at hand

In monsoon whims seize clouds
Thick run rills; rivers are in high flood

Living and dead wilt and reek
spirits sag and limbs are helplessly tired

Whence come then that little clatter
Oh! Some lads laughing with abandon

Their hands in a midden of awful stench
Right where all that glitters is gold

Aloft comes a bottle drained of gin
And a pad with spots of blood

All is grist that comes to the mill
In the sack goes what comes to the hand

A riot of colours gleams in their eyes
Etched in dirt a tear on a cheek is found

Man's foes boredom and languor finally prevail
Barefooted they head homes made of cardboard

A catastrophe beckons at what in the morn was God's land
Homes they left at dawn had all been bulldozed

Sights fell on cameras and sullen men in suits
Terrorists! They heard the charge from those whom Lord must shame

Dedicated to the perennially homeless Pashtuns, and their children scavenging at middens, who were recently evicted from Islamabad through the use of naked force.