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The black umbrella
Of the swollen clouds,
Unfurled over the
July city of Mumbai,
When the day ends abruptly,
And
The dusk tip-toes
Softly,
Spreading its dark wings,
Before the night arrives quietly,
Like the constant waves of the
Tired commuters, faces blank,
Alighting from local trains,
Battered by the grey rains,
And bulging with
People that do not see,
Clutching briefcases
Standard brown or black
Or grey and folded
Chinese umbrellas,
Their only armour
Against a callous city,
Between the overcast sky,
And the soaked earth,
Among the trees shrouded
In a passing thin mist,
Driven by powerful
He-winds;
On the top branch of a
Palm tree unseen
In smog and cacophony,
Sits a pair of the
Two tiny birds,
As forlorn, and
Fragile -
As the falling shadows
Vertically,
Over a horn-blazing,
Loud and screaming
Unlit concrete,
Automaton
Mega city.
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