The long worn uneven streets dream away at night,
of seven little tempest-tost sea rocks that became one.
The city of lepers and kings burns fiery bright,
with similes and tears of hundreds under her scorching sun.

Her Arabian sands have seen much blood,
she weeps each night for her teeming shores.
“Oh little man, of my soil and blood,
you’ve brought hatred through my hallowed doors.”

“Struck me with your indifference, your sarcasm, and more,
you forget the truth, and truth it is you know -
I’m your mother, your wife, your wretched whore,
a therapeutic escape”, she would bellow.

Behold, tiny man – I stand here as shall I forever – the truth undone,
seven little islands – destined to be one.

Bombay Grim by Amit Bhandarkar is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at www.toobrown.com.