Old tyres on roofs instead of cars. Rusted mattress spring coils as gates instead of in beds. Metal nails in soot as toys instead of driven in walls. And most of all, a black, soot-covered, stench-filled city painted against an azure, clear blue sky.
The dissonance and incongruity of so many things shouted at us constantly. We had no rest from the dissent of things that didn’t belong.
Six-pack tummies and broad shoulders on little boys instead of grown men. Colourful canvas on makeshift roofs instead of carnival stalls. Little children in trash-heaps…
I turned a corner, and saw this little girl against a green wall. Green, the kind of green that ought to belong in a chalkboard in a classroom at school. But here she was, at school-time, sitting on a stool below clothes to dry in the sun.
I wrote this poem on our way back from Smokey, as I thought about how like everything else which screamed dissent and didn’t belong, my heart, too, had the same sense of misfit back in the safe havens at home. And for some reason, I was more at home there than I was back in a memory not too long ago.
Enjoy “Belong”.
Belong
Not under cars but over roofs to dry
Under merciless heat, are tyres found to fry
Not hidden in beds but out for all to see
Are mattress spring coils, now gates to be
Out of school, young ones in dirt alleys throng
Things found in places where they don’t belong.
Foam boxes, broken, form playful floats,
Over stolen bread, a little one gloats.
Trash, in heaps, form joyful slides,
Hops on sewage trucks make great rides.
Fun times look different for those so young,
Found in places where they don’t belong.
Charcoal smoke, in homes so small,
Pervade the air, clings tight to all.
Children playing with rusted nails,
Atop high castles built with pails.
Small boys, in soot, chests like men strong,
Found in places where they don’t belong.
Back home a bonus buys a third car,
Forgets the lives that live afar.
Money earned becomes money burned,
Fattened hearts forget lessons learned.
One’s eyes are veiled from right and wrong,
When things are found where they don’t belong.
Returning to a place so plush,
One looks at wealth and starts to blush.
What we have, we have so much,
It wouldn’t hurt to spare a touch
Of time or money or prayer or love,
Sent beyond lands through skies above.
From a broken heart bursts forth a song,
Mourning it’s place where it doesn’t belong.
Thank you for journeying with us and these precious children.
We will be sharing more on how you can help and make a difference in the lives of these little ones, as we take this time to prioritize needs and set up ways that you can contribute meaningfully.
Thank you for your patience, we will share more soon.