The lake flaunts plastics and floating gods
With their eyes and feet in clay fragments
Staring at the clouds, their dark acrylic hues
Lighting dusk fires on mildly smiling ripples.
Their leaves and dead flowers lie in a heap.
Dark men meditate on colored gods of clay
Their wobbling feet made of it, bottom up.
Children’s gods fade into red, blue balloons
And their stomachs ache for evening snacks,
A few warm golden teeth, with hair on top
As a golden ball, tossed in the lake, floats,
At the shore, near the holes where men live.
Men in the tall machines lift their clay gods,
Their women red in faces, their hair in knots.
The flowers turn the lake into a yellow sea.
They first hoist their gods into the blue sky
And hurl them into the waters, into a ripple.
Adukuri Jagannath Rao writes on Indian Review.