bustlingstreets, filled with black cabs
and bright red buses,
heads popping overthe open top like budding roses.
ceaseless movement, a steady rush from onecorner to the next
to the next, the stairs to below a riot of moving colorcoats.
the tube is filled with steady voices and moving bodies,
on and offwhen the doors rush open, on then off
and up the stairs to the surface, to thestreets
with their people rushing by their city on their way to theirjobs,
their lives, moving mindlessly past their culture,
a mesh of statuesand art and instruments of torture,
a legacy of greatness forgotten by theancestors of the greats
in their quest to become great themselves.






A Visit to Iran by Sharzad S., Hercules, CA

New Year's Eve by Mikel P., Lancaster, PA

Inside Krishna's Temple by Gazal T., Houston, TX

If I Had Been Born A Boy by Elaine S., Congers, NY

One Foot at a Time by Nicole S., International Falls, MN

My Indian Name by Michael S., Ashland, WI



   

By Sabine N., Cincinnati, OH












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