A Sense of Purpose

When I wake up in the Bangaluru morning - scorning to my hazy vision,
I hear the distant engines and the occasional roaring of bikes in unison.
"What a strange land, have I come to now ?" - I ask in wonder to myself.
Once where on the small buildings' carvings perched the rock pigeons,
All I see flying around in skies are the planes, crows and eagles.
Surrounds me now are crowds of concrete - unmoving and still
compared to the free lands without the burden of man and his dwellings.
"What a strange land, have I come to now ?" - I ask in wonder to myself.
Why
did I not realize when does became doth and your became thy?
When did home become house and happiness - shy?
What is this language I speak, these curves I write in, the alien sounds in my head?
There lies around me land of men - sober and in-sane,
the nuptial hour of garbage with the giver of light
(the transformer, right,
across the street)
takes place this unholy union right before my sight.
The towers are made of dark glass which reflects the clouds above and soil beneath.
The earth bares the burden of the gifts of mankind that even Prometheus never bequeathed.
Walk around they with keys as their fingers and phones as their mouths
and the eyes, white as the bright shimmer of the glaring screen.
I find myself walking over the layer where corpses of rodents rot underneath.
"What a strange land, have I come to now ?" - I ask in wonder to myself.
Childhood being sold next to the store of puberty, and right next to it we find
generous adulthood selling in bottles of beer and wine.
Its a sale, why don't you buy! Buy all that catches your fancy, buy all you can find!
It's expensive, yes, but everything is possible in the city of Bangaluru.