The Indians call it the darkness,
A place that smells of paan,
blood, sweat, mud,
and polluted rivers.

Blackened bodies raised to serve
Blackened souls,
Children birthed as if hatched
Often without names,

Even in the crystal palaces
Of Gucci, Prada, and McDonalds,
Blackened bodies serve
Blackened souls,

On the outer skirts of Bangalore,
Mumbai, or Delhi
I wonder what those in the darkness
Would think of America?

We all think we live in the light here.
But our friends on the other side
In the darkness know:
We’re just blackened bodies
Serving blackened souls,

Amusing ourselves with fancy trinkets,
Ipods, shoes, cell phones, all become
Our idol gods,
And our gods demand our debt,
Paid in blood, sweat, depleted 401k, and
MasterCard.
Just a bunch of servants in the darkness,
But so distracted and stupid to even know.