The weeping streets...

Bharat series 

The weeping streets...

Nobody's listening but the streets weep,

If they could speak they'd shriek...

The "aunties" clean but still it reeks,

The filth remains it must be deep within

I have watched them sweep, 

I guess it's something they should teach, 

For after gathering the heap of negligence,

They shove it down into the drainage.

The systems are clogged, 

It doesn't take the floods to know.

But all they do is fold their clothes and be on the go, 

And those in cars curse as their engines catch a cold.

At night 'fore I sleep, I creep, 

cross the road and dump my garbage onto curb, 

Sometimes I feel better off than most, 

for my mate waits until the city sleeps, 

and over his balcony rail he throws his waste, 

A gesture filled with much jester, 

Yet a common thing among the masses...

In the morn at the strike of dawn, 

The three wheel truck comes along sounding horn.

The garbage walla hops out in his dingy clothes
as the driver honks some more,

Alerting those in their towered homes
to bring down the "gold" they don't want,

And those with a sense of dignity rise 

and hand over their bin bags, 

And onto the next street the little truck 

revs away on its creeky wheels, 

To clear up some more of the evidence
that by night the city reveals... 

It's not enough that cows have shitting liberties, 

forsaken dogs can lay where they please freely, 

And crazy drivers can honk their horns unruly,.

None of this seems to raise any form of alarm

So they carry on staining the street with red spit, 

From blood shot mouths drenched in pun and tobacco,

And everywhere you go sachets of gutkha and cigarettes lead the way,

On the wailing streets of Bangalore where its just another ordinary day.