My Nightmare (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)
I dream of a land far away.
A land where the father cuts wood
From sunrise till sunset,
And brings home a few rupees.
A land where the innocent children
Stretch their right hands,
And are rewarded with dollars.
A land where a woman gathers
White, red, yellow and crimson tablets and pills,
From altruistic world tourists who come her way.
Most aren’t doctors or nurses,
But they distribute the pills,
With no second thoughts about the side-effects.
The Nepalese woman possesses an arsenal,
Of potent pharmaceuticals.
She can’t read the finely printed instructions,
In German, French, English, Czech,
Japanese, Chinese, Italian and Spanish.
What does she care?
Black alphabets appear meaningless to her.
She can neither read nor write.
The very thought of her giving the bright pills and tablets
To another ill Nepalese child or mother,
Torments my soul.
How ghastly this thoughtless world
Of educated trekkers, who give medical alms and play
The macabre role of physicians,
In the amphitheatre of the Himalayas.