The Slum.

I see their clenched stomachs, impregnated with pangs of hunger,
But it also carries great strength, the one that urges them to earn every little morsel.

I see them dancing and bathing in the pools of mud,
But my contemptuous darting glares never seem to disrupt their innocent smiles.

I hear the pain and anguish of a molested daughter,
But the tenacity of togetherness heals her wound.

I feel their bare chapped feet, running on my skin,
But they leave the essence, of the touch of a pristine baby.

I smell the fear, of their hut collapsing on a rainy day,
But their palace stays intact, blessed by the power of their prayer.

I know that fortitude, the one that controls their darkest emotions,
But it also tells me, that they are broken inside.

I support the colossal bamboo that serves as their only toy
But their empty eyes fail to hide, that longing for something more.

I wonder, how would it feel,
If only for a day, I could Soak no more.

I see them cry, I hear them laugh, I soak it in,
For I am the Slum.