Miles to walk, feet layered of dust to choose.
The birth of new History into being; walk, walk, walk
Till the stomach rises it’s fire to storm.
The walk of miles, blurs the sight of village green.
The roads of concrete cannot rejuvenate the lives within.
The ticking clock of hunger peaks, how to deceive the plague-full thief.
Peddling the wheels for thousand miles, for a fistful of rice.
Leaving the walls of nurtured dreams, for the mouths to feed.
Migrating from the land they lived, for the survival of their loved beings.
Hands of constructing cities, lie under the shelter of naked sky over the streets.
Back home lies the open doors, waiting for the return of imprinted feet turning to shadows.
The locked faith of tribe women turn the keys around their eyes.
The old, the new and oneself in queue, had to nurture over due.
The scripted tongue tailored in silence, the morning cock awakens the eyes.
The cracked heels kintsugi with earthen clay, hoist the hopes of shunt sounds.
The gravity fails to stop the migrating hoods, washing away from the grounded roots.
The sliding lands under the feet turns into concrete, in a moment of an eye blink.
The sword of survival armed within, the women of tribe outride the sun.
The nurturing of local breed, free range poultry of the desi chicken
Cash in their urgent needs, a remote ATM for their patched hoods.
The tribe with imprinted tails within, rough it’s clay longing it’s path distant from his cattle sheds.
The sale of chicken boost their wheels of urgent needs, as the flowing demand for the local breeds.
The quake of crisis gets in control, from the instant cash generated from sale.
It’s like a policy of survival, waiting for their loved ones way in back home, as Adivasi lives matters too.
Author- Sonali Gupta
Gumla, Jharkhand, India.