On The Crossing

On the corner of a busy intersection where six lanes meet, I waited anxiously for my brother to pick me up on his way home. The evening was dry and warm, with an acrid stillness in the air. The cars with blaring horns sped by me on a hot charcoal road. I moved closer to a small Neem tree for some shade, And looked at the unfamiliar area with a little unease. That is when I caught the little girl's eyes scanning me. She drew my attention with her bright and curious smile. She and her siblings were sitting on their haunches, Circled around a copper-face woman, engrossed in Roasting some legumes on a wood burning fire pit. The children waited patiently for their meager meal. I looked past her round figure and quick moving hands. Down the descending land near a drain channel the space was Filled with homeless refugees living in and around torn gray tents. The features of the little girl proclaimed the group's distinct identity. Her Tibetan smile was as soft, jovial and innocent As the falling snow flakes at her mountain home. Here in the land of billions she was one of millions Making her home on street corners and open lands. Her eyes displayed no recollection of the memories Of homeland, that she left behind at a tender age. She was probably unaware of her home and culture Being destroyed by systematic ruthless expansion. She was too young to understand what future held For her or for countless of young children like her. Still she was a lucky one to have her mother and sibling (I presume) And to live in a group that afforded some protection to her. From snowy peaks to burning desert sands, refugees are Forced to flee from war, violence and repressive governments. Uprooted and demoralized, they endure hardship and oppression. The world agonizes over their suffering but is so unable to cope with it. We who come across them by chance are stirred And shook up for a while but offer no answers. Standing there troubled by my own uneasiness I too offered nothing but a mild exchange of smiles.