You’re waiting for news but it does not come,
the rain is hard needles, yet still lissome
the cobbles are worn, the bricks are a ruin
a hair’s breadth between right and wrong doing.
You want to escape the nonstop urban noise
the jangling of nerves and the shattered poise
but you end up where you’d rather not be
walking the bleak footpaths of a sob story.
It all looks so pretty at the eye level,
the flower garlands, the bass of the conch shell,
but under the skin of the red mud pathway
it turns different - right, might and power play.