To GUR-GAON

Calling you a village would be an insult:
No! not to you, but to the villages
That boast of bountifuls of water, space, trees and air!
So, my dear city
Of dust, dungeons and the damned,
Of pervert opulence of matter
And deplorable deprivation of spirit;
Of smiling motors and frowning faces,
Who rides whom, you wonder in a traffic jam.

Of towering money factories of concrete and glass,
And of the roofs of blue, torn sheets
And floor of dust of those who make them.
Of people advising others in other shores
To make/save another billion,
But hagge to save the ten rupees off the rickshaw puller!

Of caffeine powered hyperactive nights,
And drowzy blues of morning;
Of planned accidents and unplanned meetings,
And of shuffling priorities and
Swinging opportunities;
Of crawling pace on roads
And racing aspirations on laptops and smartphones.

Of people trying to hide their emptiness
By wrapping themselves, in a mall
Filled objects they need not at all.
Of blurring lines of GO and STOP,
Of pouring spirits to dry throats
From a glass bit by bit,
Of vain attempts to fill an emptiness of spirit.