Participate in the 3rd Season of STORYMIRROR SCHOOLS WRITING COMPETITION - the BIGGEST Writing Competition in India for School Students & Teachers and win a 2N/3D holiday trip from Club Mahindra
Participate in the 3rd Season of STORYMIRROR SCHOOLS WRITING COMPETITION - the BIGGEST Writing Competition in India for School Students & Teachers and win a 2N/3D holiday trip from Club Mahindra

Broken Window

Broken Window

2 mins 13.9K 2 mins 13.9K

I am a broken window,

And I was not broken once.

I saw the green fields outside,

The trees swaying with wind,

Heard the mountains echo,

Witnessed the river flow.

I am a broken window,

And I was not broken then.

The birds would sing close to me,

They would swing on the trees,

The lamb would walk past me,

The cow would lazily graze,

The flowers would bloom under the sun,

With the butterflies fluttering around.

I watched the farmer carry his cart, early every dawn

And return at dusk.

I listened to the flute of the shepherd,

And the women singing in the fields.

I watched the postman riding his bicycle,

House to house and door to door.

Sometimes a boy would just loiter,

Dragging his feet around.

And then there was the newspaper man,

Ringing the bell of every door.

Those were glorious days,

Golden with the colour of happiness.


I am a broken window,

And this is what I see now.

The trees are chopped, the grass is gone,

The mountain is obscured from my sight,

Don’t know if it still does exist.

I am surrounded with tall buildings,

Matchbox styles, with shiny glasses.

The heat is terrible, and it doesn’t rain often.

I see the monster smoke rising from the chimneys

And I no longer spot a bicycle,

It’s replaced with huge motor vehicles,

Honking and screaming from morning to night.

No one sings but they play what they call the digital music.

They claim this is progress,

I see them talking over a box,

but never with one another.

I see them clicking photos,

but never admiring what they view.

I see them rushing past me,

With black suits and leather bags.

I wonder if they live in oblivion,

Unaware of a broken window left behind.

I stand here buried with pain, oh poet!

And they say something will run over me tomorrow.


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