Lost world or call them worlds,
On the pavements, by flyovers,
In slums, by traffic lights,
On railway stations, and bus stands;
A trail ablaze,
Howling, hissing in its smouldering stupor.
Serpentine curves of life amidst
roads glutted with tired travellers
and buildings choked with bleak elegance;
Each bend thrusts a shock wave,
Badged with the numbers of struggle
people falter, bawl, hackle and sneer
with thick-veined throats and emptying souls.
The urban rosary and its beads:
The halt imposed by a red light,
A mother in torn, soiled clothes,
He/she held in arms and rags,
Pleading in front of the windscreens,
And the wealthy rag-picker
searching lust in the garbage;
Green light beckons the stampede once again,
And taking a carnal sip for free
the already privileged reveller jolts away.
Beggars feigning sleep among foot taps;
Humanity dancing to the tunes of hard heels,
Wheels rumble overhead,
As the trams screech and cringe over the bridge,
Killing by sparing them to live in a mass grave.
A big car chirrs and whirrs
and smiles glossily to defracture the void,
The puffiness hovering around the wheel,
Alas, spacious more for
accommodating the emptiness of the soul;
Rich eulogies for the poor graves around.
Lost worlds piled up in a bigger one,
Fed on something squeezed tight and narrow;
Ghostly and visible not,
Its spirits turned wooden,
And multiplying at mere pin-drops,
What to talk of human efforts, Metro?
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