From One Exile To Another

That street where you lived, do you know?

There is a new bookshop at its very mouth

They have a modest collection of classics

And I have picked up a few, I must admit

Whenever my heart has tugged me there

I know, for sure, you no longer live there

But my heart thinks otherwise, who can tell?

It claims to know better than what I know.

That "very old bookshop", as you said it once

Alas, it seems to keep only the latest books

All in fine order, without a spot on any page

And as for the old ones - poor things!

They rot and peel away in some dusty neglected shelf

I feel a stab of pity for them - consider London, now!

A city of lovely books and lovelier bookshops 

Where they really treasure everything old, you see!

I really should pack up my things and books here

And move to a place like...London, where else?

Perhaps be an exile by choice like you, why not?

This city has nothing of worth for me anymore

Once...perhaps when you still lived in that street

Bombay seemed to hold some secret promise

Even as so many have had their dreams shattered

Even as all their - and my - hopes have been betrayed 

When you lived in that building by the bakery

Where there still lingers the scent of fresh bread

I felt as there was something still worth discovering

In that barren street, so bereft of any other charm

I like to eat a bit of bread myself from time to time

And I admit, they do dish up a few good cakes and pies

But that alone wasn't why I would return to that street

Rather, I only wanted to follow the traces of your feet.

And where are you now? No, I know it and I can tell.

In that city of fabulous skyscrapers we all know too well

It lies across the steaming, simmering Arabian Sea

Where dhows sail like paper boats on water as hot as tea

Where you are blinded by the dazzling glint of gold

To stare hard into the metal of the sun - who can be so bold?

They say, all those dreams that couldn't come true here

Could be found there glittering and alive, hear, hear!

So, there you are an exile, by your own choice

And here I am one myself, by circumstances

What would it be like, can you imagine?

To throw a message in a bottle to each other?

For sure, you would not like this damned city anymore

And I am not too fond of skyscrapers or a sand dune.

So, anything, a word, a mere scribble, even this poem

Would be sweeter than even any popular tune.