Flyovers

Progress seems proudly perched on flyovers, Sold on many a toll-dotted speedways. Each, pylon-pecked, on hinterland hovers, And not on friendly crisscrossing highways. They slyly gloat over our urban mess, And conceal, not care for local problems, Which, ostrich-like, we bury to by-pass, And do sweet little on the urban slums. Should progress treat poor as from nether land? Cut off from sun, fit t’be hidden under, Whilst ugly growth is left on own to mend, What price progress piled on planning blunder? Everyone dreams a brand-new world to build, Where no organic growth gets widely spread, Wherein natural greenery gets killed, Mother Earth gets gradually degraded. Flyovers are fine, so are expressways, Not if overlooked are our hinterlands Shepherded on the leftover bye-ways, Not if villages get locked as wastelands. Yet, that's what most flyovers seem to do, Expressways if they only metros care, When dotted lines only but two dots woo, And leave smaller towns in suspended air. For concrete jungles, local greens we kill, Block rivers to build giant reservoirs, And make the freely flowing rivers ill, Block neighbours behind winding flyovers. That progress seems fair— even high in air, If all that lived around were it to care. ___________________________________________ Happenings | 03.06.2004 | perspective