The Flight of Shere Kahn

Posted by Erik Moshe on Monday, January 28, 2013 Under: Rhymed Verses


The flight of Shere Kahn

Bangladesh, the festival of lights
Children running naked 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 his moth eaten sofa
but if he swallows he'll choke from the particle smoke
How can he be a grandfather and cope -
With an unbreathable mist shrouding his living quarters?
He marches on, yet he's becoming too fragile to deliver orders
Barely makes a living, quarters, 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
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
A meager mug 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
All day, broad day you can see his wrenching intestines
The rewards reaped, a white tee 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 loot goes 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: to keep moving.

In : Rhymed Verses 

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