A Simple Desultory Observation

You see him

Bent half-naked in the sun

Weary with the ache of a thousand years

Digging as he is ordered

Digging the grave of his dreams.

Perhaps he raises his eyes to yours.

You spit in his face

And he wipes it away

And bends to his work

A thousand years of weariness

In every motion of his arms

As he digs the grave

Of his dreams.

And after the dreams are buried

You build your house on them –

Perhaps

You did not see the anger in his eyes

When he wiped his face that time

You did not see the clenching of his hands

Or the old rusted spade he uses

To dig the grave.

Perhaps

You did not care.

But perhaps this time

The grave he digs

Will be your own.

Copyright B Purkayastha 2012