The air is laden with cooperation,
No thorny apathy;
No mob to throng the cornered self,
And murderous individualism axing hearts,
Here, we have a mixed self: the kind behemoth.
Neither bucolic love and unity whole,
Nor nucleated as in concrete jungles;
Limited is the spectrum; holds which
tender human bond still strong, and
live we all in slow majesty of decent unconcern.
The hunger and thirst for electricity and water,
Though dents the moral fabric a bit,
But in patience and forbearance the real self prides—
To bear all hardships and deprivations;
And adapt to disadvantages all.
The people still carry habits, conventions old,
Burdened further by the stuff new,
Still, carry they the rusted self with rural pomp,
Habituated to ignore and move on,
Veneers which as rough pride of the ruralites.
The commuters to the city carry old bags,
Hoping to fetch something new,
The very same villagers still they are
whose rough-hewn character
breathes with unease in the city big.
Still able to smile and laugh,
Holding a big open heart
in its tanned, work-beaten, hairy chest,
Priceless it is for the modern world,
Very few as there are places such.
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