I’ve crossed continents,
Curtailed time,
Been somehow seduced
By sleep while squeezed
Into my single sized seat
And swept, in one day,
From winters winds
To summers sun as seen
Scorching over sabulous
Sands, ignorant to the floods
And rains and storms
That have become my norm.
I am a homeless traveler,
Displaced from those norms,
The wide eyed wanderer-
Aghast at what this
Delightfully distracting,
Dust dosed, dreamlike country
Clings to as commonplace,
Conventional customs.
My eyes, fearful to blink
And miss out, flurry about
Their sockets trying to take in,
Understand or just be a witness
To this unaccustomed view
While my fingers fumble
Over the lens of my camera
Already failing to capture
Each memory of life
As it passes me by
At breathtaking speeds
That cannot even compare
To the cacophony of captivating
Charismatic charms I’ve been
Suddenly submerged in,
Surrounded by
But am nothing more
Than passing through.
I am being driven
Through your lands of millions
Where sarees, in more complex colors
Than stars in the constellations,
Careen through my side-windowed vista
From the backs of motorbikes,
Twisting and turning through
Chaotic carriageways
Crammed with cars of every
Size, sign and signature,
All Honking through the
Hustle and bustle of the crowds
Who live their lives along the roadside
And ignore the rules
We westerners have grown
So weak and wearisome under.
Curious eyes watch me
From lofty positions
On backs of open trucks-
Some eyes smile, some
Frown, some wonder,
Naturally, on the reason
That lies behind my gaze.
The air; awash with sights
And sound unfamiliar to me,
The landscape; flecked with tones
My eyes have never imagined,
On the streets, idolized cows
Wander freely through the masses,
Nothing to worry about,
Nothing to remark over,
Just a godly cow
In search of water to drink
And land to graze upon.
We are stuck in traffic and a man,
Looking blind to all light,
Weaves his way through the carnival
Of carriages and cars
With three sheep tight by his side
As if they’d always been with him,
As if they were his children, his family
And I wonder who is leading who-
The man, the sheep, this car or me.
Amid all of this life carried out
In cars, on corners, at crossroads,
Along grassy knolls and sandy banks,
Lacking in obvious direction,
There is a freedom.
Amid all this weight
Of politics and poverty,
There are smiles a plenty
And it is I, in my branded costume,
Who looks the fool
Traveling through, taking it in,
Thinking I am better off,
Somehow, amid my laws
And rules and beds and baths
And running water
And walled in farms.
I am the foreigner,
Amid what looks like
The fortunate
Whose fortunes are far
More favorable than mine.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
