Two sparrows kiss,sitting
On a high bough of the tamarind.
Like a tamarind seed, my town, nicknamed 'Mini Dubai',
Had burgeoned and branched on the bank of Kanoli canal.
Now the silvered canal sprawls on its death-bed.
Busy pedestrians walk down
An ancient bridge, built by the British.
As the traffic light has lost its eye balls,
A potbellied police man dances and controls.
Jalopies groan, and modern cars whiz.
A long whistle:an ambulance with the wounded
And a van with the wedding party, halt side by side,
As the southern and the northern hemispheres
Of emotions meet at a single point ,by chance.
The nostalgic smell of the canal sops in the sizzling tang from a cafeteria.
Among the concrete buildings that seethe under the tanning rays,
The splurging women whirl in the hurry wind.The stink of sweat
And the aroma of the Arabian perfumes choke the air in shops,
Where, sometimes, the chicanery peek through the glassed.
To the government offices nearby, the applications drafted in blood
And salt, scurry only to get the obsequies in the waste baskets.
The sots creep like snakes in the yard of Sandra Bar
A crow sits on an electric post and watches all below with a smile of wisdom.