Kolkata, sleep my Lady.

This is my city; a city suffering from insomnia;
For the events she witnessed have cast a shadow
Over her. Her dreams burn every night among
Street lights; only nightmares flow through her
Broken, dusty roads; Only for the rain to hide the marks.
This is the city where my father played a part
In a theater which still reverberates in history's failures;
His nostrils still rich in pheromones of the gunpowder
Which ate through pages, lives, truth and morals.
In your slumber, my city still waits for an answer.

Flyovers hide beneath them chess pieces, trapped
In the pile of cases, the answers sink deeper into abyss.
Lovers, like misplaced cartons of milk; crimsoned
Along the tracks by the kingdom's escapism, still cry out.
And you keep trying to justify where mystification failed
The hole you dig gets deeper with each lie; But who cares?
Promises, like broken records have long succumbed to the past.
So why not let my city sleep for she has endured for long!
What justice can we ever do to her desires! And when will we
Wake up? For in that moment, time will leave her alone!