Innocent Eyes, Old Soul

India,

A country of color and vibrancy,

My home,

My Identity,

Which like me is plagued with stains,

Stains of juvenile tears, blood, and sweat.

One does not fully grasp the magnitude of poverty until,

It stands in front of you in the form of a sixteen-year-old girl.

She breaks down as she bears the pressure of the world on her shoulders,

The sacrifice of her parents and the expectations of her impoverished legacy.

Bogged by other's dreams and hopes she has no voice to shout for help,

Her energy is sacred,

She needs every last drop for her day to day life,

If she expels it to carelessly she will comprise the sacrifices of her family,

Her education which compromised their daily bread would become nothing more than dry wheat.

This is one case of pain.

India has millions of heart-crushing stories,

A reality I learned when I was sixteen,

A mirror image of this girl but we lived in a seemingly different world,

My daily struggles were incompetent

I realized at that moment the gravity of reality,

The truth my country and education glossed over,

The emotion my elders desensitized,

I saw trauma and that force was enough to change my soul,

Cause with every story I hear, I have a responsibility greater than myself.

To be the voice for the voiceless, the heartbeat for the dying, the light for their dark.