with the smell of onions frying in a hot pan
on a busy street,
in the sweltering heat.
the salty breeze
and people on the beach.
with the thunder of a local train,
or perhaps the pouring rain
drowns out the noise
floods the roads,
but then I hear a voice
a child wants me to give her alms
and I can only throw up my arms
in the air,
a stray dog runs scared.
with the sight of a hundred tail lights,
stretched out for miles,
a riksha disappears into thin air,
vendors knock on windows,
truck horns blare.
Will the city be empty when I return?
to quiet
to the silent prayer of millions
who know what might.
to death
to the single beds of the ailing
fighting for breath.
to the end
to the cold dark ocean
who knows when
Will I be able to return to the city?