My city droops, a wilted petunia
in the glare of party turmoil.
Its lungs choke on smoke and banners—
red, green, saffron, and broken vows.
As the tamasha roars,
God sneers at the absurd theatre below,
watching us trade bad for worse.
Miles to go before I sleep—
yet the sticky asphalt holds my heels.
A tinsel city, built on gimmicks;
under glowing billboards,
urchins scavenge waste for dinner—
cold milk that cannot be boiled on the road.
Here, every Faustus signs his soul away,
shortchanged by the devil himself.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at editor@madrascourier.com.
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