The secret life of the Mumbai cart horse

A busy metropolis

hot as can be

Mumbai its a city

of millions

we see

so much going on

its one hell of a place

no real standard vehicles

a graceless face

the city demands

every service to be

cris crossing working

the streets

earnestly

so where should the horse

be

pulling his cart

carrying people

into the heart

the hot sun

is there all the time

little shade

for the horses who pull

they are, on parade

working and  drawing

their loads too and fro

up hills and down

they have to go

fly blown and maggoty

water that stands

attracting the bugs

and swelling the hands

this can be hell

for the horse and his cart

and  heavier people

Please don’t make me start

horse power is one thing

but trucks shooting by

taxi’s and coaches and

and ox carts do ply

its a hot bustling place where

no horse drawn should go

the air is so rare

and the water you know

is dirty and hardly the fuel

of those who

must delve into their souls

to carry us through

many give up and fall in the street

tangled in harnesses

no one’s discreet

they pay heavy parcels and heavier

souls

there are no laws to speak of

and lesser controls

How I feel for these angels

those moon gazing souls

who scamper to shadier

places their roles

are to run and to run and to climb and to be

at the beck and call

with  adversity

surely its out there

its hard all the day

and more and more people

are heavy

the way

is longer and busier

and the stress too

is building and yielding

so little in lieu

for all the hard graft

and the poor food they get

and the whipping and ripping

that sometimes is set

fast for them all

as they take on the rest

Rigatona’s the Queen

with an ebullience and zest

a bringer of dreams

vivid pictures to test

the pale horse is out there

staring up at the moon

as fertility beckons

its clarity soon

that open the consciousness

draws on the gleam

the great queen is winging away

it would seem

but really she’s there in the blink of an eye

magnificent magic

from corridors high

its an arduous journey

for horses who ply

down the narrower streets

where the oxen walk by

where the buses and trucks

come and share their exhaust

and breathing there

honestly does appear forced

but those cart horses suffer

interminably

life is much tougher

how can it be

that those who now use them

abuse them like hell

and don’t have the where for all

to treat them well

no place to rest them

no shade at all

no fresh cool water

and when they fall

tangled and broken

few even care

but the goddess is watching

and notes the despair

man has to see what his

shortcomings are

his lack of real empathy

how it does scar

the bold and the wise one’s

who strive for to ply

who carry great loads

in the wink of an eye

long legs that get swollen

and hooves that are too

there is no remorse for the cart horse.

a few

die in the street

legs in the air

wracked with the agony

that’s everywhere

lost souls of Mumbai

lost worlds apart

Rhiannon waits patiently

testing the heart

protecting the meek

encouraging those

who selfishly neglect

the weak

and have chose

the hardest of routes

in the heat of the day

when the fluid grows less

and the body does pay

where the mosquito’s sups

and there’s blood in the air

lets remember the cart horse

who once had a scare

who fell in a heap

at the noon of the day

when the water dried up

and so many then pay

the loads that were ample

before adding more

are the killers

that break like no others before