Dusted with gold, colours wheeling,
Threads reaching into a sun,
Precious handwoven rugs from Mumbai,
Individual, divine, only one.

A foreigner orders a carpet.

So a carpet graces the road.

On a throne made of barrows and money,
But a hand stops the vivid-hued load.

Covered in dust, wrinkles stealing
Irreplaceable youth from his bones,
Worthless mendicant soul in Mumbai,
Stretches out towards hope with a moan.

A dollar could take him to life,
As his cup stretches out for some bread,
Yet, the cloth priced more highly than life,
Trundles past, and it leaves him for dead.

The ship chugs through horizons,
With its costly woven load,
Whilst a bag of bones expires,
In the dust, beside a road.