Dimapur! My Dimapur!
Not on the hills, you lay,
Humid nights, dusty summer days.
Rainy days and floating paper cranes,
Dirty garbage and smoky lane.
Traffic jam like a snake’s charm,
Boozed out tongue meant no harm.
Broken glasses and bamboo huts,
No one laments of the thousand cuts.
Grand new buildings and posh cars,
Poor lady’s hopes in a jar.
Immigrants singing the same old song,
Cup of tea keeps them strong.
Rock! Paper! Scissors! The unemployed
youth sighs,
The dragon has left its dungeon, medical
bills on high.
If there a ground then let there be a
game,
Imagining life won’t be this lame.
Poisonous mushrooms too grow,
Death may come thrice in a row.
Panics sometimes fill the city,
Poor beggar wants no pity.
Sky can be blue, sky can be pink,
We need more denizens who think.
We are rubble yet living under a bubble,
May we see our future is in trouble.
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