By Bindiya Bedi Charan Noronha
Et tu, Optimism
My head tells me to write a piece on optimism.
My poetic heart is dead, I will try.
What should I tell my young widow friend who lost her mother?
Can I wipe the tears of that one who huddles in a camp waiting for a miracle?
What can I do for the hill folk torched out of their homes?
How can I rebuild the lives claimed by nature's fury?
Optimism, do you even exist?
Hatred collides.
Death and destruction all around.
The broken bones and machinery made no pleasant sound.
I try to grab the sliver of light from that depressive dance of despair.
Emerging from the earth rise the Bravehearts
Queuing to give blood to the unknown victims
Blood is all they had to give.
The sun of optimism shone bright that morning.
The half-clad child knocked on my car window.
I rolled down my glass and poured cold water into his cupped hands.
The second one followed, then another and another
I had emptied my water bottle and filled my poetic heart with
Eternal verses of love optimism.