To Bangalore

A city which sleeps in the undercover of its loud noise,
Where kids like us wake and live and die and fire and jive and be high.
Every source of fulfillment, it endows in its bosom,
Chilling cold or unbearable heat never makes anyone feel all alone.
I understand its stupid methods of alarming awake.

Shadows of articulate life still run on,
But the heavy artillery of fast-moving, irrespectable people, stills hurts on.
City of lights and city of dying bulbs, the fascination builds on,
On a sea of fiery waves, the city glows on alone, blown in its windy horn.
I understand its stupid methods of show-off.

Females clad in skinny little tops and scrawny underwear,
Men dressed in ear-rings and ponytails.
Shivering cold makes they shiver in the screaming night of the city,
They don’t care; they don’t dare; to act as, even though they are half bare.
I understand the dressing sense of the city.

Beer and a little whiskey; that make the city drink and drive,
Vodka and spirit cold, that makes the city sing and jive.
As spaceships they fly till the unlimited infinite space hits them without gravity,
Even though unworthy, people suicide in the hanging maze of the city’s knife.
I understand the riddle woven by the city.