By Pankaj Debbarma
January 12, 2024
Horde of beasts,
On the city streets,
Mechanical in make,
Keeping the livings perpetually awake,
Through vicious roarings and snarlings.
Queuing in serpent-like curling,
Spewing sordid dirt and dust,
Heightening the earth’s thirst,
Seems like Frankenstein has run loose.
With incapacitated prey to choose,
From destination-bound footers,
The beasts, all akin, snot hooters,
Makes the beings to wonder.
And compel them to rage a deep utter,
“Why don’t these mechanical beasts spare the livings
A cent of peace, at least?”
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