Bungling brains are those who dried up drops of water on barren desert land.
Others breaching brinjal gates buying basa fish back
in telling times, speak safety slyly;
forgotten stores revived a penchant for passing over rules.
If sickness brings rainbow perspectives to each life’s actions,
Desperation for those drops of money paints the entire world
grey in indifference. If anything, an air of annoyed complaint
wore over the scene: who are those for the ones without?
The ones without providence. I can stay in a soap bubble for so long
with only bubbles bombarding, my worry: who are those for the ones with
claustrophobic bubbles shortening their ever-crumbling lives?
The smell of customers swarming, bustling beaches, brimming traffic
seems a shred of normalcy, a shade of happiness Even
with the Sword of Damocles hanging on their necks.
But in selfishly, dramatically, recklessly safeguarding
ourselves and also forgetting ourselves,
who knows who affects the other more, when this too will
Fade away into the twilight? The ones breaking hands in a system of money flow,
or the ones breaking rules in meager hope of the virus being nonexistent.
The cameraman blazing with the sun, looks through the lens
not at a threatening future but
One indiscernibly overexposed by
lax lockdowns, irregular gasps of oxygen and ludicrous flouting.