I wrote this poem eleven years ago. And it still remains true (the meaning I mean, the scene outside the window has changed too many times since then.)
A big pillar,
with a lot of wires.
A huge gate,
street beggars’ fate.
A long street,
not looking sweet.
A lot of hustle and bustle,
every time, a crowd of vehicles.
A noice of trin trin of bicycles,
horns – of cars, scooters and bikes as well.
Thrill and excitement of the children playing on the road,
pushing each other, shouting, looking each one odd.
Hawkers, selling fruits, vegetables and various other items,
ladies bargaining for the price, each one as if in a rhythm.
On the corner of the street, are lanes of shops.
Buy whatever you want, a notebook to write in, a knife to chop.
Just in the front, tinkling of bangles can be heard.
On the top of walls, or on TV antennas, nests are made by birds.
The more I watch, the more I can see,
Still it is not visible – Who are you? Who is me?