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Life in metros,
Becomes a series
Of empty encounters,
Resembling
Oyster shells
Strung together artfully,
Humming in the
Sun-kissed breeze -
Outside hard,
The shells but
Inside blank
And gaping,
Found on the beach,
By a solitary walker,
After the sunset,
Left there in a great hurry,
By a thin urchin,
Curly-headed,
In torn half-pants,
Feet bare,
The kid perhaps
Afraid of the dark,
And the soft shadows that
Always follow,
Such a fleeing figure,
And, of the violent beatings
By an alcoholic father,
Cussing, cursing,
On his unsteady feet,
In a dark hut -
Harboring many secrets,
And a silent ghost
Of a mother,
Seen often
By a crying child,
The little thatched hut,
Standing alone,
Decrepit,
At the edge
Of the long beach,
Like an abandoned boat,
On the moonless nights,
When a lonely sea sighs,
Heard by that lonely child
And a soul encased in
A flat in a High-rise.
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