At the hour of golden rays of dying Sun,
Fusing with symphonies of returning crows,
Inhaling poisoned air with fading flowers,
She walks along crowded street with eagle eyes.
Roaring scream of rolling wheels on dusty roads,
With the barbaric beat of Kottu maker’s plates,
rapping words emitting from the lottery huts,
composing a song for satanic move of hips.
Searching comfort with few coins born of sweat,
heaven’s smoke with half open eyes, waiting,
imagination blend with moon light, heatens,
when waving silhouette appears though darkness.
On the rickety cart exhausted of days work,
Sighs are breathed in flames of desire,
where the rupees burn, infants cry unheard,
Mat at slum weeps in vain, strange eyes call the moon.
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