Mumbai.

A poem written on a city in India- Mumbai. A city that never stops.

It'll never stop,

The city is 24*7 hip hop,

In the night too the cars rumble,

even in sleep you can hear the people downstairs mumble,

The ambulance horn,

and the burned corn,

are too easy to eat and find,

At times i question does any one really mind,

The roads are filled with holes and drains,

Some like the train, 

Some like the rain,

Some find it an oppurtunity ground,

For some they feel unbound

~peace.creations

Author's Note

Note: Please do not use any abusive language.

Reviews

[Peace.Creations]

@Cicera I respect your interpretation too:) But this is what I feel about the place:) I feel surprised at the way things are over there..

[Cicera]

Really, why would anyone mind? Sounds, rain, train and hip hopping roads; with its mosques, temples and smoke clouds that the sky has hidden, I return to the scent of corriander and the flowery patterns of sarees yellow, brown and green. Who would mind the burned corn when a little three-wheeler cuts like a scissor the road in a funny zigzag? My legs take me outside the limits of English-speaking maps. He points the right then the left. Then another contradicts, when I ask. Soon I begin to think that I am not lost, but in reality I am unbound, as the rain begins and the water washes the memory of what I've just seen a minute or three ago.

I wake up to the smell of cinnamon at night. I hear voices in the night, for people talk and talk like the dancing banana leaves day and night. A cool old baba lights his half cigarette inside the bus. People complain, object and shout. Church Gate: I think I see a holy trunk waving above the sea of train-crammed crowd. 'Where are you from?' asks me the young maid. I tell her I am a modern friar from the past.

The holes cover the road once again. People are small drops of rain draining me from every direction. 'Soon I will begin missing everything,' I say to myself as the smell of banana fries rhymes with pani pani in the south train. 'when will the train take me this time?' I smile and then close my eyes, and wait for the tears to out. The rumble of the cars gradually begins to fade.

Mumbai, I feel so far away. But all my life as though I have been there, this faith keeps me aware until today of something I will always miss. It is not the city, not the sites or attractions and not even the memories. It is something very different, so distinct. It is, I think, a poem, or something like that.