Tears roll down my cheek.
They wash over my dirty face like a flood in the desert,
Whisking away the filth and barrenness,
Revealing the rich brown underneath.
They stream down my face that I appear as a fierce tiger,
A tiger of stealth and cunning,
A tiger of majestic pride,
A tiger to prowl the Slum and one day rule the other tigers.
And then I will be The tiger.
These tears of mine, they stream down my face and plant seeds of vivid sights,
Free to drop on the low earth,
Free to rise for the sunshine,
Free to wipe from my tired brow,
Free to sink into my sore flesh,
I am a tiger, free to roam
Free to live in the trash of Dharavi or the trash of Bhalswa.
I will stalk the jungle and sharpen my skills.
My brothers will whither yet I will overcome them
Yet there will be many brothers to overcome
And one day I will strike from the crags, bubbling up from the depths, like Earth's tears.
That day I will wear a real tiger skin and real tiger claws,
And I will look down from atop my mountain,
And tears will roll down my cheak.