City2 mins 359 2 mins 359
The city is in tears and
The doctor said it will heal,
The incisions will wound up
The hurt will let go.
Put salt water in its staining
Mouth, the agonized bruises
Inside the city's body will bloom Dahlia
Fluffs, perfume scent, and Urdu notations.
Our city yesterday did not fat shame
The man with wrinkles lining his body
Like art figures. He, I saw, held close
The ticket stub against his double-breasted
The suit, sobbing beside wooden tables
And lakes because he never owned
A perfect body. The pastor is
Grinning at Gods, enfolding his tender
Hands over prayers he used to hum
Inside the four walls.
The city is going home
In a crowded bus drawing pattern
On the fog-tinted window and
There is a woman’s standing with a baby,
Her hands firmly gripping
On the holder iron pipes. She is a mother.
The city looks at the marks stretching on her belly
Like fine masses of stars-tired standing in
Hotel pubs. My lips part, gently
Revealing happiness after watching the marks
Out of which the human race is born.
She is beautiful and so are her marks.
I'm happy and
So is our City.
I returned and slept.
The windswept summer sunlight is
Flooding the tiles now.
I watch how my father's eyes are stuck in
City smiles that someone cares. The elevated
The dock is filled with warm regards, prejudice
And government bills.
The city is frowning again,
Its face is pale with fume tragedy
And mirror shards. The crown on its head is
Becoming heavier and it needs to change.
I am tapping
Away slowly so that nobody hears. Our city
Is about to wail 26-letters in a lullaby and
I can't help it wipe off. I'm not helping at all.
I'm a citizen with serpentine eyes selling
Kisses in glass bottles. I could help but, no.
I watched our becoming happy again,
Staring blankly at the ballerina tying white laces,
Pacing up before the show curtaining up.
But her tip-toe hurts, her legs hurt, her smile hurts.
All the fallen angels instead of rose petals hold
Expensive cigars to their mouths now.
Is fading in lines, then in dots. Slowly. Slowly.
The city is attired in regimental sorrow; blue buskin
And sad socks.
I wish we help City love, grow and be
Can we please?