These little feet would too
run to match
the pace of the crowd
minting money,
rather than running after
the pug marks
of a Pomeranian, or a rabbit.
These little, mischievous eyes
might rain ambers of abhorrence
turning this million dollar smile
into a contemptuous smirk
with an imaginary pride
borrowed with a baggage
that comes with religion,
caste, or may be, nation.
These lips, like those of
an Indian god’s idol today,
in a fit of rage,
would be hurling abuses one day.
These little hands
may hold a pen, tomorrow,
or, if the world has its way,
there might be a
trishul, or a sword,
or, for worse, a Kalashnikov.
But at least, for the moment,
let these tiny fingers,
in a jiff of carpe diem,
touch the moon,
tickle the stars,
at least, for the moment.
