Jayati Srivastava | Sunday, May 10, 2020
A flight of fancy was this city,
A place for longing, belonging and livelihood was this city;
Our blood and toil enriched this city,
Our pain and distress was never comprehended by this city;
The pandemic has unearthed a new mirror in this city,
Showing the darkest and the grimiest side of this city;
Despair, anguish and hopelessness have gripped this city,
Hunger, pain and suffering have corroded this city;
Empathy, compassion and sympathy have become strangers in this city,
All that is left are the bodies without souls in this city;
Broken dreams and promises are scattered across this city,
Bereft of its dreams and romance, can this still be called a city?
The poem is my way of empathising with the plight and suffering of millions of migrant workers during the nation-wide lockdown in India.
Jayati Srivastava | New Delhi | May 10, 2020