One of the old poems, re-rendered.
The mountains drop down at the back,
On the footpath, people made a dash,
The thick dust, smoked a golden air
And on the road, vehicles spread a layer.
Oh! that fenced Banyan!
With branches droop, ten
Looked debris on the side road,
With the directions nailed on its board.
The yellow black taxis croaked,
And with the smoke, the earth choked!
Those numbered criminals?
Out on bail, else!
And the zebra-lined tar
Across an all-night bar!
A bit away, those lined trees,
But, not so fragrant was the breeze!
The cuckoo did not sing,
Nor did the bee, flutter its wing!
No one listened to the man who sells
All lost in the noisy horns and bells,
Passing by the mangoes in his bin
With such haste, all for the win?
That speedy ambulance, with its people tense
And behind, was it a Jeep or a Benz?
Unconcerned, and uncared
(Travelling?) with many miles fared!
The city crossroad, as I saw
Still to this day, continue to gnaw!