Grief of my life there’s no room for you
In the billion bels and frantic phons of sound
You will die in the deafening din of this mad town
Nor find one vacant grave or dumb tomb for you.
No, nomad grief there is no home for you.
No open door in this city’s vast bounds
Where two blood-hounds snarl at the gates of horn
And ten armed men spell the doom for you.
My beggar grief, keep your sandglass by the side
There is no place to hide, no place to run
Each foot is lit by million lumens of the sun
Each fiend watches from his window wide-eyed
Ten armed men take their firing stance with the gun
And two blood-hounds tear every pound of your hide.
–ASHOK MAHAJAN