A wide street,
Singing prelude to a smaller one,
Rests beneath the shade of pestilence-stricken houses,
Built one above the other,
Or so they seem to be.
And that wide street,
Tells no stories,other than what is evident,
A 'Misshapen Chaos',
Constancy of stampede,
Dust,unwilling to leave,
Trash,adamant enough to keep its place.
Yet,when you rush through all this,
A keen eye,
Might lend you some lunacy,
To see the beauty,
Beauty of ambiguity,
In this place,Shah Jamal!
Aye! Vague,that seems,
For how weak the people,
Unable to leave the state of constant suffering.
Yet strong enough to be here,
And to be here for life?
Still as we march down the street,
There are things.
'Things' of all sorts,
And things too intimidating for one to fix their eyes on them.
Perhaps,
Rather certainly,
More than eyes,
One's nostrils might suffer!
For an entire spectrum of odors,
Of all kinds,
Individually,however,pleasing,
But together-Hell!
And as the wider street leads to the narrower one,
The intensity,
The ardency,
The fervency,
Of the loathsome odors,
Might make one lose their faith in God.
But holding God's hand,
Do we sail through the unwelcoming sea,
Of smells,foul and rank,
To reach the end,where
This curse breaks,
And this damnation is no more,
And our mirth,
And our glee,
And our joy
Is out of bounds.
And absolutely surreal does it feel,
To reach the hostel,
Alive!
Or rather Undead!