Bitter Cold

There is bitter cold 

At the borders of the city Of indifference. 

Wizened women and men 

And children below their teens 

Lie the frozen nights 

On bare tarmac, 

Surviving by the fire in their hearts, 

And the justice of their cause. 

A glow of truth from their being 

Warms the air and shames the 

Winter of crude impertinence, 

Even as their human bodies may 

Succumb to the December hell.

 Carrying the nursing warmth 

Of the soil in their bones, 

India’s farmers outface the urban 

Cold and show how the real freeze 

Lies in the swollen skull of authority 

Whose hollow cruelty may be stern 

Without human content, but whose 

Pride of office screams for pity. 

 This is truly a new beauty born 

That gathers histories 

Of courage and faith

 In the sounding of the people’s horn 

That may never be stilled 

Either by Nature’s extremes 

Or the flimsy robes worn By Pharaohs of the day. 

Yet again, the ploughshare shows the way. 

 ---Badri Raina