From the other side of the tracks by Tamanna Malik (19, India)

No, I don’t write about pretty skies or beautiful flowers,
for the sky is hardly every visible from my place and flowers do not grow in my backyard. 

No, I don’t write about serene mornings at beautiful beaches,
for all one can hear in the clustered lanes of this slum are curses and cries.

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No, I don’t write about mothers’ loving touch and protective hugs,
for mine died taking care of you and your mess.

No, I don’t write about home, 
for I belong to the other side of the tracks and you don’t have the stomach to read our stories.

No, I don’t write about my dreams either,
for we’re taught to survive and not dream for dreams are the illusions that lead to destruction.

No, I don’t write about anything at all,
for you’ve snatched our ink and quills and you’ve built walls to deny our existence.

No, I don’t write,
for I cannot, ‘cause you don’t let me. 

And then you ask me, “why don’t you write?”

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