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Facing the marble temple,
Along the pot-holed highway,
Under the arch of the
Yellow welcome gates,
Separating one dismal town
From another,
Live the old couple,
In the flower bed,
Woman blind in one eye,
Man doddering,
Half-clad,
Eyes vacant,
The dispossessed,
Every morning,
Getting their breakfast,
From the Prasad,
Offered by hurrying devotees,
They, part of the milling
Homeless brigade of the
Beggars crowding around,
The big, ornate temple gates,
Being fed by the rich daily,
It is His way of feeding them,
The wretched shunned by all,
The Discarded Ones of the
Urban India,
Those impoverished folks,
Stinking, shabby, despised
And feared,
These ejected souls
Daily live in the shadow
Of a kind, merciful God.
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