The road back home

The time was noon and monsoon now

and wind was flowing from every where,

hills of sky scrapers

and so monstrous malls.

Walking back home with thoughts of mine

and playing with the stones just walking by.

The wind in my hairs

and shirt and glares,

the nature was singing in a sound so frail.

The trees I passed 

and shops and houses,

to see a man in torn and rags.

He picked up plastics that all of we threw

up stacking his bag fighting the wind,

working hard for his living.

When war is there 

or strike every where,

we sit and listen to the invisible pair,

in news they stand in mind of ours

and we forget our real stars.