In this nameless wasteland
Lay scattered signs of
Last night's jostle in bed,
Thrown away
Broken toys of civilised society,
Torn and twisted e-waste,
Discarded and broken furniture,
Smell of burnt polythene paper
In the afternoon air.

On the valley of garbage
Standing scattered a few shabby people,
Among them there is a dark skinned boy
Sitting on a heap of garbage
Holding a semi-transparent balloon.

Used condoms are
Waiting in his ***** pants' pocket
To become inflated like
The one that he holds in his hand.

The courtesan couldn't stop him
From seeing
The misery of her world;
The client wanted to have her
Without protection
And she wanted to earn
Twenty five rupees more.

Now deadly diseases are
Finding their home
In her courageous body.
Leaving behind the sins,
The father has disappeared
In the bustles of
Glittering cityscape.

Here once again
The Evening is now closing his curtains
With all his yesterday's drudgery,
Again the Sun has hidden his face behind
The shameful horizon of slums.

Near and far
The city is staying awake.
The valley of garbage is now trying
To hide it's rotting smell
With reeking perfume.
Men have started
To come in and out of
Dingy rooms of women
At measured intervals.