Untitled

2 comments before you read the following poem:

1. It is not very good but that does not mean that i should not write it. It only means that you should not read it.
2. I went to the modern art museum in Delhi and noticed that some of the paintings were titled 'untitled' and indeed i was unable to figure out what was the intent or idea of the artist behind that painting. Well, now you know why the poem is titled so.


Untitled
I was walking back home,
when i met an old man at a red light intersection
we walked together,
same pace,conscious of each other,
untill the next right light,
where he then kept his hand on my shoulder,
and lifted his other hand slowly,
pointing to a man,
sleeping on the side pavement,
clothes worn-out; footwear non-existent
mouth open, flies on his clothes.


There's a difference in sleep,
when you sleep deep after you are exhausted,
and when you sleep after you are defeated,
Same body language, same grimace,
Reality is far away, vivid dreams.
To a watcher, its the same,
but there's a difference.


As i watched that sleeping man,
shocked,
more by the old man's arm on my shoulder,
than by the sleeping man,
the old man came close to me,
with trembling lips, moist eyes, he whispered,
'This is America'.
Light turned green and we parted ways.