Dancing flesh.

The precious waste of a woman is a baby,
The unavoidable taste of the bodies that display,
The uncontrollable haste of the man that overlooks,
The new generation of human is produced without avail.

The creation of Gods, serve them no more
The creations of Man serve them so well,
The net that entangles quarter of population,
Dismantle the family bond without any trail.

The sweat may change the landscape,
The hard labor may chase away the poverty,
The thought may think to discover,
The memories may stop to recover.

We are the remnants of the waste, but priceless,
What we eat, seek, save, inherit and then leave,
Garbage that collected in our body and soul,
What that can't be seen, are our only luggage.

poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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