Indian Streets

In those sleepy summers of years past
When we dreamt under the shade of palm trees
Amid the soft dust of urban streets
And laughed with the young boys
Whose ribs played peek-a-boo under their tattered shirts,
Like distant relatives who turned out
To be worse than ever before expected.

We shared a love for the sun and the sand.
But while I would run home
Reveling in my grandmother's delight
Watching the horizon melt slowly into honey,
Their eyes ached scarlet in despair
For they would return to their huts
Made of mud and stone
And they would cry out in pain
As they were kissed goodnight
Knowing perfectly well
That their soft cheeks were forever tainted
With the ragged stench of alcohol.

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