In our alleys, they never like to Come,
For a while, they Visit,
They Romanticise what we eat,
They Look at the overfilled canal,
That we call Naala,
Filled with your excreta,
Heap of plastic,
Your Excess,
Whatever it may be,
Ranging from the discarded bottles,
Unused Memories, Prejudiced Gaze
To the carcasses of the crow that couldn't
Survive the jolted wires that hang over our Fate.
In our alleys, they never like to Visit,
Except in the winter evenings,
When the smell of burning charcoal
Covers our air-
Mixed with the dust and smog,
Drips through the skin of tamed kebabs.
Except when we block the Streets to claim the rights of being Citizens.
Except when you feel like looking at us as Caged subjects waiting for you to get us
Liberated from our 'concocted' Dreams!
In our alleys, they never like to STAY
For the Dumping ground of your innate Hatred cannot be a HOME.
In Our Alleys, They Never Want To Come.
