The cultured celebrate her as the city of joy.
The evenings here, they say, bubble with life.
Yet I see no destination in the eyes of the men about.
Am I the much hated cynic blind to the value of the animated bursts of infinite passion,
Manifested in a sea of humanity?
Or are these faces without features a mere product of my imagination,
Rather the lack of it? I see faces, lifeless and dumb,
Celebrating a party that was long over.
I see evening shops and offices shuttering down,
Fire used to seek blessings and protection.
Is there anything left to be protected?
Can anything be protected?
Cars honk, autos abuse, buses screech;
Men are silent…and safe. Time creeps….