On a busy roundabout in buzzing Delhi,
Fake wealth smirks & luxury car creeps,
When red light stops,
Fast panting life gets a pause,
Dullness riding on killing air,
Only gloating eyes and putrid thoughts.

Nearby, my eyes halt on a poor, destitute girl,
Sure, I know, not of sweet sixteen
Few heart throb with love and care,
Though number of passers- by is umpteen.

Her ugly eyes embedded in chronic pain,
Gloom abiding on her wrinkled face.
She is ugly, bony & sickly
Tear- ***** flecking ***** cheeks.

Foul smelling with flowing nose,
******* dressed with ragged clothes,
Callous cool breeze shivering her emaciated soul,
No brotherly hand for her rescue & no divine aid to her console.

Delhi engrossed in sensuous talks of love, ***, movies and romance,
No one cares for her real plight,
Why charity and pity in independent India?
Methinks, a graceful life is her genuine right.

When she stretches her wounded hands,
Begging for a loaf of bread,
I cry & weep deep inside,
Losing hope, I feel so SAD.
I wish swapping of my destiny with hers,
Can u please tell?
Am I a bit out of senses or if I have gone totally MAD?

Mukesh Kataria