The Periphery

At the centre of all worldly things
The fast moving cars, the fitting, bright clothes
That makes men mad for women
And women swoon for men
Our tables, our chairs, our books
Our wallets and all that we call ours
Lies the toil, sweat and labor
The blackened hands, the bony bodies
Of those we cast out of our existence
They have nothing to call ‘their own’

At the center of all our gourmet pleasures
Our sandwiches, our steaks, our coca-cola bottles
Our lollipops, our ice-creams, our candies
Lies the broken backs of farmers
Their corpses hanging with a noose around their necks
And those left, still toil for us
In villages we never wish to visit

 

We live at the centre
Where all the movie stars do
Where all the glamour is
We want to go to malls
And be surrounded by friends
Who have the same things we do
We want lovers dressed in fine clothes
Who take us to fine restaurants
And as we pass in our fast cars
We see the orphan children of the farmers
Begging on the streets for food

 

Our friends toss a sandwich from the car
And watch the hungry children fight
For our pleasure

 

How much pleasure can we afford
At the cost of those not at the center?
A day will surely come
When red brick walls would rise
From the periphery; walls of resistance
That will imprison us in our own needs.
~Kamran | Edited by Farrokh

 

 


 

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