You fear to befriend me,
To hold my hand,
And call me your own.
Even education fails
To free you from such
For once you refuse
To believe physicians,
Who assure I’m harmless.
Your fear’s origin
Isn’t hard to trace
‘Cause, you see my sores
My mutilated body
You fail to perceive
That I too breathe,
Feelings, dreams I too have
I too long for
A kind word, a warm touch
I too can feel hurt
With unkind words, a cold touch
I too can lose my spirit
To live without companionship
Counting my days
Like a living corpse.
You only need to think
Of your beautiful body and the sores that might
Mutilate it one day
And then you fear not
To hold my hand
And call me your own.
ANUSHA.U.R.
|
16 yrs
|
Published in the souvenir of the Mahatma Gandhi leprosy hospital in 1998, in the anthology “In celebration” in 2003
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