Six migrant workers (were run over by a speeding
bus while on a 1000 km journey home, on foot)
This poem knows nothing of your suffering.
All it can be is a poor witness. A public record
book is more of a poem, it has your name,
your story, even the colour of your eyes before
the dreams were stolen from them. A poem is
just so a poet can breathe. Just a low portal
through which a caravan of gloom has passed
without stopping. This poem is the view through
a window pane while the inferno rages out of
sight. But the poet is so safe inside, so distanced
from the flames that he cannot even smell the
smoke. Yet, this poem wants to talk about the burns
on your skin and the scars on your being. Just so
a poet can still remember what it was like to feel.
we have walked together
for so long – reached different places
for so long
For the millions of migrant workers making their way back to villages and towns in the hinterland, thousands on foot,walking hundreds of kilometres, as livelihoods are destroyed during the lockdown and hunger becomes a greater threat than disease.
Curfew: Day 50