Voice of the Jungle

India.
Squalid.
Dirty.
Uncaring India.
The coach shakes us,
Rattles us, unmercifully,
Through tea plantations,
Over hills,
Across scarred roads.
It moves through jungles,
Sometimes passing rough shacks
Flush against the road.
No protective sidewalk,
Just jungle, shacks, road,
And children leaving school.

Suddenly we stop,
As cars and lorries crawl
Through the shanty village.
And around us,
Screams, calls, crying,
Whistles from the jungle.
The jungle’s weeping.
Monkeys, birds
And unseen creatures
Voice their cries.

And there on the road,
Seen as our coach edges past,
A child’s skull and brains
Sprawled upon the road.
A life carelessly spilt,
And the jungle creatures cry out in pain.

Copyright ©2001 Tony Crisp