The anvil of the East
In the cold hard stare of those shanty towns,
You hear the busy bikes bustling around,
You hear the hearty children humming to the sounds,
You see the posh Prado that does not belong,
You see the glock pointed, “Sir, go along”.
You might even hear screams,
Hair pulling, a lover’s affair,
Shoes flying, such a disgrace, beware!
You see the sewage water going down the drain,
You see brown earth, roads nowhere in sight.
You see the cows mooing with anorexic bodies,
You see the baby wiggling its nose to escape the flies,
You see the boys laughing in their four-inch paradise,
You see the rest dying, day and night.
You see the moon howling not aware of its affect,
You smell the drugs peddling, peddling along our maddening roads,
You watch the booms and bangs in our sedentary fashion,
But still the car zooms across our broken streets,
And still the boy cries for his dirty sheets,
And still we go on beat by beat.
The views expressed by the writer and the reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of The Express Tribune.