The tumult on roads distant from home
ever reaches one through the window;
Poll fever in the shape of banners leaves
one with a twisted hope on brow.
The mark on the forefinger is a symbol
of right, not a windfall of your choice;
The shape of morrow is not in your ken,
the waves on Sensex, flight of price.
With it comes a festive ambience,
more bytes than fury, then the fun;
Until the countdown narrows down,
Hope tied to the drip of oxygen.