By: Badri Suwecele

Above the domes and roofs of Mumbai, India,
and over the Arabian Sea, at sunset,
one sees cloud streams of golden-ruby in the air,
hot pigeons fluttering, far off from cold Tibet.
One hears amidst the heavy evening traffic flow,
occasionally, sounds of sitar strings plucked at.
Beside rich palaces and poor ramshackl’d shacks, rove
the countless vehicles of millions, lions, light,
a swirl of green, yellow, orange, scarlet, indigo,
and deepest purple gleams, all shimmering in white,
as darkness drops pollution on the city of
a people striving to arise, a living sprite.