Child on the beach is a random event .Not just when it had taken place but when it came to me at a precise hour on a sleepless midnight. Some other thing could have come. Why am I inveigled into a poem I hate.
Poems are chancy things. Like the child washed ashore to the beach. Its clenched fists might have held poems. Poems are no visas. They drown in the Atlantic and get washed ashore on random memory. They are our children dying from our memory .Their eyes are not pearls.There is no sea-change.
Child in the earth had an organic change. An earth-change .It had its eyes popping up to a random photographer. Its eyes had seen no sea-change. It was plain popping eyes. Instead of on the beach it was by a factory wall.
Why am I inveigled into writing about a Bhopal kid from the dust of the earth?
The Morning is Just a Dream 
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