Child Labor

A primeval termite

is gnawing at the soul of society.

That winged swarmer

has eaten up dreams and sentiments,

leaving the residue of some powdered dust of hope.

Its mound is far above and high

 on the chest of human race

and has grown just as deep and low

underneath, spreading roots.

Lost eyes scrutinizing the garbage can,

chapped lips that has forgot how to smile,

cracked, peeled off palms sorting out rags and

footfalls that only know the jab of rocks;

a life that is meant to have

pen, pencil and book

is now consumed slowly yet steadily
by the cruelty of toil.

The tentacles of hunger

have engulfed their rhymes and fairy tales;

those babies too have fallen from the sky,

yet, perhaps, the children of a lesser God!

The fancy tableau of the cityscape is now

filled with innocent blood;

blood that runs through the veins of

numerous anonymous unnamed faces;

 their bones and beings are

nibbled and chewed away into ashes

by that primal termite named

child labor;
now, the hollow husk of humanity
mocks at us!