Streets... Poem by Ananya Guha

I love to walk ways of serpentine streets
where people meet in dusk's ways
and where shops down shutters
because night arrives.
Still. Stillborn.
Lamps are lit and dogs
meet and then mourn.
Someone says bad omen. Death? Birth?
I love to see the moon in wonderment
and roads in grievous fault
whip gravels and stones.

Outside there is war, sniper and bullets
the big leaders talk of peace, rescue
how they have to save the race from bigotry.
Streets are silent, mesmeric in winds of change.
In the country, there are monoliths, grave yards
war. We love- our country.

Streets are in doubt. Questioningly they ask
which artificat are we destroying now?
which monolith?
where do we pray?
I love to saunter around a country
of history, passion, reason.
Dead will rise.
Graves will upturn dead voices.
Voices. My country.

In the streets silence is a way of life.
Babur came from Farghana. Made an alien country
his home.
My home.
Silence is outpour of past. In streets of Delhi. Dilli.

I love to walk in streets leading to hovels.