The Festival of Sound and Smoke...

Here they come- again.

To these I’m used.

Acts of ingratitude-

May I call them?

I shower them

With the purest of waters;

Choking smoke they return.

My children they are!

My duty it is- to cover them,

To protect them and

Not expect returns.

But, warn them, I must,

For my tunic won’t last long

Over their smug heads.

Wear and tear- have reached

This poor old covering-

The only one I have and offer-

They call it Ozone.

Time is running out.

Celebrating their way

To the End,

Some reach early via

The gruesome route of mishaps;

The rest take the slow route.

Will realization dawn soon?

Where are We?

A sadhu immolates himself to attain eternal bliss or some such thing in the hands of the Holy Lord.. A group of Indian Policemen, the so-called Government Servants and Commoners' Friends, sit with folded hands and piously watch the gross act!! One policeman even takes a pic of the burnt body like one would take the pic of an unforgettable treasured scene with his mobile.. A boy who looked like he should have been in school studying or playing with friends vigorously plays the drum-like instrument after the sadhu's death..
And we call ourselves A Developing Nation!
Kudos to the MP Police force for making our country "Proud"!!!