Looking out through the glass,
the view is not so nice
There’s an expanse of a slum
rigged in poverty, decay, and vice
It’s bigger than any he’d ever seen before
stretching out on both ends of his
sight
It stretches out as far as his eyes allow him to see
only restricted when the window on the wall might
It creeps upon a hill, and still climbing up he reckons
only stopping, where the hill sees a bend
Perhaps it would go over the hill someday,
and start coming down from the other end
Humans live there, millions of them in in small huts
Disgusting to see, poverty, dust, scavengers and shit
He watches them from the 15th floor,
easily ignorable, for he finds the sky at his feet
He can choose to see the sky, crisp blue and majestic in
size
or he may gaze the hill, covered with lush green trees
Not the perfect picture, but it does have its good parts
Raising his eyes, he may choose what he sees
But he sees the slum, the millions the plight the hardships
the pain
the scowls the struggle the darkness the bane
He chooses to ignore the trees the sky the birds the lights
He wakes up every day, and contemplates the plights
But, every night when he comes back home
there is no sky or hill or trees green
Darkness engulfs the area, shadowing the landscape
only a splendid array of stars to be seen
Not in the sky, for the city sky has no stars
Each little hut lights one little bulb, and that’s where the
stars are
Each lighted up at night, casting out darkness from their
homes
Together, lighting his nights up, leaving no trace of their
scars
Each light rests against the pitch black sky
Millions of them together, stretching
out on both ends of his sight
It stretches out as far as his eyes allow him to see
only restricted when the window on the wall might
It suddenly stops going up,
into the black sky his lights are lost
at nights he lives among the stars
A pleasant picture to come home to
and he comes home to it every night
to think that something so hideous during the day
can fill his heart with such delight
Perhaps that is the price of beauty
The wounds that make us bleed
they leave scars of glory to contemplate
like he likes to watch them to sleep
He contemplates his own life
his thoughts on his mind and their nitty-gritties
Looking into the glass, he sees his own reflection
and he sees himself, amidst his masked city
Vishal Gupta
21 August 2016
