The shattered path was barely one-
the broken road roared,
with lightning, thunder... potholes;
the beggars cradling car by car-
it was such that they, hungry and all,
would reject the coin fallen on that road.
A big sign, yellow... round
said 30 in big, black, bold letters...
the speedometer, however,
said otherwise: it
was 12 too high. The police did not
care anyways. The motorbikes-
the motorbikes roared on the roaring road:
they were the cavalry, their riders-
soldiers of war. Seeping between every
and each gap.
On the right, a one room-house,
with barely 4 walls... labelled \'Villa\'.
On the left, it seemed winded:
it was a village of mud by the road.
Thunder had recently rocked, and caused havoc
the beggars were like squirrels;
the delusions were Moreso. The village-
it was of utmost devastation.
The road-
of utmost deprivation.
The thunderous road thunders and roars-
everyday, it does.
With lightning, thunder...potholes.
The poor stumble onwards, beggars
and ignorant.
The rich have established villages on the sides-
the delusional one-day-turned rich.
The soldiers have ridden into battle,
in battalions of steeds.
The coin fallen;
it is still to be picked up.