THE LITTLE KING

With no stars to light
The furiously moody night,
With none jubilating the arrival
Of the little king in the carnival
Only the crickets chanting on
Laboring with the woman
To dissemble the burden of her fate
A kingdom welcomes its own
Alone in the dark
Pain rips her wasting frame
Groans and screams flood
Cutting through the attentive bushes
She never looks
Neither admires her little newborn
It is her little shame
Her little mishap
Her little triple
Trash for the bin
Quietly, without a murmur
She clothes him in coarse polythene
Unwashed, dirty and raw
Suckling nothing
Struggling to breathe
Cold stinging
And takes him home-
The popular city garbage.
That night the little king survives
An addition to the kingdom…
Thanks to her heartless mother.