A CD selling Thela

I hear busy tapping-feet-trapping on the cobble-brick laden street.
My own footsteps upon the ancient builder's mould, beats

Skirmishly. As I trot backwards, towards destination - I see you-
Parked four wheeledly on the mount over the traveling path.
You thing of beauty.
Sturdy.
Strong.
Staunch.
Stable.
Secure.
Solid.
You thing of plenty.
Weighing on your shoulders - the weight of the universe.
You are the awesome brood laid by the clandestine sex of man and nature.
You are beautiful - your music is like the vegetable biriyani
(the alternative for the real thing which is too expensive for the believers to afford).
You are the herald of art -
omnipotent storyteller -
attracting buyers from all
ethnicities!
Gender-Caste-Creed, you make no distinctions.
Quietly you sell to whoever is willing- killing the lingering doubts in the air.
A shy decoy from reality.
Within the hanging hide hidden in the pelvic curves between your legs,
lays mankind's weakness and shame, nakedness which claims
the life off satisfaction.
That is your birth.
That is your purpose.
That is your trade.
Yet, you bluff those learned men who wear poverty on their skin,
Innocence on their eyes and their mind far far away from your truth.
But in this complexity of survival,
you give more than take. An urchin by birth - nobled by work
which is only a facade.
You are our ruler, conspiring to conquer our deepest fears, desires,
insecurities, by showing us what we want to see.
An illusion of our choice through your offer.
Men, women, children, gays, bisexuals, transsexuals, lesbians, dead -
All set up dwellings over your flesh.
Waiting to be chosen.
Waiting to be
born(e).