In June, I excerpted from a new book of poetry by Kaaviya Elangkumarabahu (who was but 12 years old when she published!). Kaaviya followed that up with two other poems written exclusively for HW. And now, a third. Thank you, Kaaviya.
“The Betting Station”
by Kaaviya Elangkumarabahu
As the cold, biting cold of the car air conditioner,
Complemented and enhanced by the heavy,
Splashing rain bites through my skin,
My bones,
My bones – of course,
Trembling,
Trembling with the cold and inconvenience in the dark-blue night,
I shiver,
As our car halts –
Halts,
Our family,
Our family,
Not knowing the direction,
In which to proceed.
I look out the window,
‘Sporting Times
st.bet’ –
A betting station,
A betting station,
Open –
A motorbike parked outside —
Past eight o’clock,
In the night –
Still open.
The flashy sign of the emblem –
A yellow horse,
Made to look as if it’s running,
With a red jockey on top —
A live,
Line-picture type emblem,
Flashy. Flashing.
In the cold,
Miserable night –
Past eight. Raining heavily.
I sigh,
Such stations –
I’ve seen ’em before,
Scattered,
Scattered,
Across the nation,
Condensed in specific areas –
Specially in the more developed regions,
Of course –
Flashing late into the night.
As our car resumes its journey,
I feel it –
The cold,
Biting feeling,
Chopping in again –
But mixed,
A flash,
Flash flood,
Of anger flooding my systems.
The beautiful horse,
The majestic thoroughbred —
Reduced,
Reduced,
To a mere betting station emblem,
To a mere betting ticket number,
To a mere tool –
Bred,
Bred,
For human profit –
Entertainment.
Fame –
The greed of it –
Despite the freeness,
The endless grasslands and pastures nature wished it’d have,
All,
All,
For a two-dollar bet,
Trophy,
Name –
The sacrifice of a beautiful, noble soul.
The cold, of course,
Now – now,
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter,
Now,
Of course,
We humans,
Hail –
Long,
For convenience in every second,
The right temperature,
The most delightful appetizer and the most content dinner,
The grandest hotel and highest house –
While the noble,
The innocent,
The spirited souls of the horses,
Remain,
Remain,
Stuck –
In a relentless cycle of dread and indignity –
No personality,
No character,
Two-dollar betting tickets,
A label of a name broadcasted upon the television,
A machine,
Machine – of course,
To harvest trophies –
And one to discard,
By the owner’s will,
When his “commodity” fails to earn him reputation or cash –
To be sent to the slaughterhouse,
For quick, cheap meat,
The worst cases even starved –
Of course,
‘Course they can’t harvest money or fame –
The living, breathing beings who’ve bodies,
Bodies,
Filled with spirit,
That are often ruined,
Teared,
Shredded,
For the sake,
The sake,
Of human greed…
The cold – it’s nothing,
It doesn’t bite anymore –
As the knowledge,
That thousands,
Millions,
Of innocent,
Helpless,
Noble lives are processed,
Yes – processed,
As if they’re mere products of the industry,
For human satisfaction,
Presses in.
“Humanity,”
Of course the word could never be spoken by us,
Of course it couldn’t,
What’s,
What’s,
“Humane,”
When of course,
We put millions of innocent,
Helpless lives in unspeakable misery,
Misery,
For the sake of,
Of course,
Fleeting human greed and a two-dollar betting ticket –
The soul that should take to the breeze,
Hooves hard on the pleasant,
Damp earth,
Now strike the cold,
Miserable track,
As the whip –
Whip,
Lands on its back,
Forced – forced,
To run faster –
A mere minute’s glory,
A breaking, unstable body,
Soul,
A collapsing world,
A lie of a word,
“Humanity” –
Pointless.
