
A torturous grumble of the cumulonimbus clouds
echoes through the dark pedestrian underpass.
It’s raining pitchforks, and people dash down the streets in a motion blur,
in pursuit of a shelter.
The decrepit, juvenile men, women and children
with lacerated clothes covering them
sit with great angst and despair
under the bridge.
The atmosphere throughout the underpass
is dark and Stygian,
almost emanating an undertone of an eldritch life.
The drippings from the ceiling coat the street underneath
with puddles, mud and a choking stench.
Someone dapper would never walk those lanes
for the aura, let alone the streets,
would highly stymie his stride.
Young girls merely in their teens
slouch by the corner with receptacles in their hands,
far from being filled with only two or three cents.
Torn clothes adorn their bodies.
Their faces, dusked as if with coal, are numb.
Their lips, pursed, dry and cracked
express a habit of misery and despondency.
Only the eyes speak.
They yearn for a minute of change,
for a minute of a pristine wave
feels like a lifetime.
Women with babies still stuck to their mother’s breasts,
cry out loud in immense affliction.
A small glass of clean water,
a bit of food
for the milk to be made,
to feed the baby.
How would they have known
From the very first breath of a cry
their tiny bodies would suffer
from the woes of hunger and poverty.
The old sleep in a foetal position
holding dear the bubbly and jejune childhood they lost
amidst the scuffle for clothes and food.
With not much time left
they yearn for a quick, pleasant end.
What they fear the most,
are those vile eyes
who prey on them young, homeless girls for temptation
and the old for mere fun.
This is the city.
The city you call your home.
The city you love so much
that you dread an unhappy life when you are away from it.
The city is a fount of magic and delight for the fortunate.
The same city writes a malevolent tale for the wretched.
How the debonair call a dilapidated,
crestfallen city their home!
—penned by a alittlesparrow—
(26.11.23)
