The Tourist by Lindy Warrell
It's not my country…
this jeweled isle of caparisoned elephants
and twirling dancers chanting and
torch throwing in dazzling costumes
over pure white cloth
to a million torches and drums
thrumming in veneration.
Buddhist spectacle surround sound.
It's not my country…
where obeisance to gods
and vows are performed
in coconut frond palaces
woven for the divine when
a priest trans vests to dance
in silken sari and trance. He is the Goddess.
Cries of joy and rupees adorn Her sacred hem.
It's not my country…
where drunken tourists
lounge near-naked in hotel luxury
and palm-lined beaches
wander unheeding in
paddy fields people call home
where buffalo graze and children play.
Passport to selfies on Instagram.
It's not my country…
where strangers ask, Madam, you are from?
Do you want hashish, madam?
Boys, sir?
On streets where monks and guns parade.
It's not my country…
where village souls at first meeting
take you to their mud-brick home
where children laugh and women
squat at hearth making chai.
Though poor, they share their meal with a smile
No, it's not my country…
where begging and touting
remind us daily that
to give is a blessing.
No. It’s a piece of my heart.