Cry of India

by David M Gunson



A street dog, mangy, with open sores, ribs protruding like the fasting Buddha paces back and forth the street, anguish in her rheumy eyes. She turns to me with such a look of desperation that I think she might turn on me, instead she lets a mournful cry. That howl tears through my soul more resonant than a tantric chant; a cry for all the homeless ones, beggars and lepers we ignore. Her cry ascends into the night, such sorrow, such pain and loneliness and a cry rises within my chest. What to do? Who to save? That cry is inside me evermore no matter how fast I walk away. That cry of India in the night cannot be ignored.

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