07 June, 2017

The Harbor Line - Masked City

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

beautiful, mesmerized, engrossed

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