The hunger striken faces

the torn clothes,

the dying shanties,

the dusty narrow lanes,

are sobbing.

The identityless buds are searching the

diamonds of livelihood in dustbins.

our fashionable outfits steer clear

from those demasked flowers.

Can our concocted emotions and

glamourous sympathy hide us?

The oppressed are being made each day

just to showcase our galvanized humanity.

I can clearly hear the snicker of Devil.

Do you not?