I look at the streets, covered with blood, 

Stinking of stories, of hate and anger,

I steer ahead, without a blink mere, 

For I have my own ‘problems’ to fear. 

 

These urchins stand, in their rugged clothes,

colored balloons but their future black,

I slide up the window, with a slight sneer, 

For I have my own ‘problems’ to fear. 

The sky is red, with flames of pyre,

Echoing wails of love, pure and others.

I walk past the river, as ashes disappear,

For I have my own ‘problems’ to fear. 

 

And here I relax, in fame and fate,

Aloof from these vagaries, not a fret. 

But when these clouds, of real pain hover, 

Will I embrace the rains or run for cover?

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