My curtain of life rises and falls through glimpses
Of Yesterday, made faint by fumes of decaying smoke
Burnt by religious fanatics, heroin addicted devotees
Petty politicians, pedophiles on the loose
Thatched palm houses replaced by concrete blocks
People living together in cramped match boxes
Cold lives, as cold as their surrounding walls,
Strangers next door, Strangers remain.
We Don’t know the more we have, the less we own
Cash in the bank is no guarantee for happiness
Some measure this change from rags to riches
Some have more, some never enough.
They killed the trees, Adorning our streets
The dhigaa, the hirundhu, the faiy keyo bled to death
An’bu in the backyard comes in a can
Pesticide induced fruit, shiny and deformed.
Gone the joys of gluey twigs, chasing dragonflies,
Barefoot across the roads and others' backyards
Our kids chase gun-toting mechanical monsters,
Potent herculean androids, in our own living rooms.
We quench our thirst with water from the mountains
Of Himalayas, and companies with fancy names
Even fancier prices for what was free rain
Mineralized liquid bottles of synthetic trash.
We work like dogs to pay for feigned pleasures
Indulge in sin, smoke a joint and give up Hope
Go home to the match box, a fire in our hearts
Desolate streets, Desperate Wretched Souls
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