The poet fails to write of a greener world.
Skyscrapers rise on behalf of the Sun
And eyes that seek for warmth
are met with cold, grey scorn.
The whistle heralds my tedious day
And I push the cart relentlessly...
My life rolls in an endless cycle
like the wheels that barely come to stop.
My idle afternoon reeks of creative drought.
I paint rainbows in my head
while my canvas remains blank...
no one remembers a silent artist.
When dusk falls on my shabby clothes
I play around with a torn chappal...
my eyes smeared with half-woven dreams
and a face full of carefree smile.