An uprooted tree lies ebbing in the street.
The one who pledged everyone with a refuge
is herself in exigent need.
People come, see the fallen one.
Not a soul seems to be concerned.
Zero, zilch, nada, none.
They don't remember
those cloistered, sizzling infernos of June
those solitary, shivering nights of witchy new moons
sodden, sultry volleys of pouring monsoons
when they, like sprayed bedbugs, ran helter-skelter
with the beast of disarray at their sorry heels -
snarling callously at all their jet-set culture,
structure and order
when all and sundry went slapdash
that stalwart of timber
gave them reassuring shelter.
…no fine print, no strings…
Today, when in the aftermath of storm and rain
her generous framework lays mortally drained
there is no one who would even stop
to look for a while
let alone bestow a precious drop
In this progressive society –
dynamic, forward-looking, revolutionary –
each enterprising personality
is interred beneath umpteen layers of conceit
and on the assay of fulfilment
estimates the value of the being.
© Chandra S., 1984