Saturday, 4 May 2013

Bachcha

Words fade, only the
taste
of dirt
taunting my tongue
violating my thoughts.
Can I speak of such horrors?

Afternoon becomes dusk
and the Common
Myna calls your name.
You play, safe
in the shadows
of your family home.

And would they assist?
Would they add their
lawful
voice to the search for a
child of the
working class?

Yet you survived.
Battered, bruised,
broken.
Cries echoing their
depravity.
Life shattered, hope destroyed, childhood

torn
from tiny fingers.
Now will they listen?

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Indian police arrest second man over rape of five-year-old girl

Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at wimpywriter.com

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