Wharf of Glass

The boat journeys from one ghat to another,
taking folks every now and then;
Few know their destination,
others just wander on the watery lane.
The boatman, kind and generous,
asked the lady in yellow saree—
“where to apa? where will you go?”
The woman’s reply was tart and clear—
“to the Glass City.”

The city where children are not born on the road,
Out of pangs of weariness;
Where blood is not scattered over the food of the unfed;
Where the trees don’t witness the exodus of specters;
Where even the thirsty crow doesn’t pity the dead girl.

The lady prompted, “take me to that city dada,
let me see the glass,
there you can see what lies within,
because the glass doesn’t pretend to care.”
The old man smiled and pushed the raft faster;
She must reach there before it’s too late,
before humanity loses its final silhouette.
And when the sun sets,
The lady finally steps on the wharf of glass.

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