Waking up to the beep of my mobile alarm,
I see the dawn break on my kitchen floor,
As I prepare my morning coffee,
And dash off to work.
The daily grind of bumper to bumper traffic
is the cross I bear,
For the dreams of better life,
In the far off town, I call home.
Days fly in expectation of the weekend.
The room, bearing the smell of cigarette smoke,
chewed bones and a empty bottle of whisky,
testify to week just passed by.
Its time for the annual pilgrimage home
Suitcase full of gifts and wads of 500 Rupee notes
thus spent on family and friends, I return,
the dreams of better life home, put off.
For another year, Yet to come
2007
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem