On those immaculate tar-capped roads
Heavy cars move Southwards to the
Emerging Capital where
The infra-structure outsalutes
The population. Absolute
Wonder; things cannot get more hotter
And from the mainmast of a ship docked
You wonder, whether you need a sheep’s disguise
To speak of this once-hamlet; in Woolf’s eyes.
Megalomania: villagers, thwarted by history,
Watch parade them by a total turn around:
This industrial revolution
On a forgotten, fore-sworn backwater
In the margins of evolution.
World Cup, delegates’ conference,
Commonwealth Games bid.
Industry, tourism, investments
Where the president as kid
Dared whoever were playmates to count to 100 and hid.
The fond malnourished son,
Grow strong in your megalomaniac sup
And as you’re served at this stupor
Let the others hold back the tin cup
And watch out-proportioned make up
In a proportion absent dream
Where a city without people
Call for a use when the cricket is gone,
When the delegates depart and the ships are docked
And the rest of the nation to a lulled theme is rocked.