They migrate and they crowd, Packed into a city concealed in smoky shroud. Small towers, tall towers, magnificent towers, They pierce the smog and kiss the sky with evil powers. They squirm, squeeze and accommodate, Gasping for air, sealed into their pretentious high-rise walls of fate. The hills dwindle in their greed, The trees do not stand their own stead. The river coughs and chugs around heaps of their sewage and unfriendly waste And that’s the water every day they taste. Mopeds, autorickshaws, Suzukis, Audis and shiny rides, To reach them on time without missing their tides. Little potholed lanes, streets, highways as well as the atmosphere they clog, Testing their patience, ailing their spineless cord, not yet lifting the mind fog. Lakhs, nay crores going down the very potholes, The “guardians of city” guarding their own selfish goals. Educated they are, with big money, diplomas and even bigger footprints in carbon, Yet they turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to the chaos they tread on. Acknowledge and take responsibility before it's too late, And the city whimpers, flails and shuts down before the hellish gate.
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AuthorAn Indian visual artist, living in Pune, who finds her challenge and her calm in the realm of paper. Archives
May 2019
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