Nestled in between
Crushed dreams and garbage piles
Is a place
Full of towering hope
As far as the eye can see
And the claustrophobic rain of opinions that make up a city.
Humble in origins, Bloody with history,
And diverse in taste.
Even though the air
Like exhaust and sweat
And fraud and struggle.
The view remained the same
Bustling Sprawling Street vendors and assholes Everywhere.
With the loud voices Of haggle and arguments
And conductors, Everyone's day would go on
Seeming to go somewhere important.
Amidst the huddle of missed opportunities
And the stale street food
We find sterotypicals as
Old people for today's leaders
And heroes in yesterday's clothes,
As if the universe were theirs
But for some, this place is the center of it.
Diabetic messes glued behind a table
Get more greetings
Than a statue
That the drunk guy in the corner pees on.
Gods are exclusive To 2 square feet of
What is now a thrift market
Belief is now a taboo
Misery is now an opportunity
And disease is a way to quick bucks.
As the morning cracks
Upon this living place
Along with the intensity
Of a hundred thousand birds
Chirping at once
Flying around a cage
Made of hills and mountains
Risky building and unfinished electricity poles
And short-lived thought trains.
The occasional flyby
Of a metal bird
But for only a moment
And an aftermath
That probably lasts a lifetime.
A lifetime spent in this desolate bustling city.
With one foot in the past
The other in a dream
Everyone here is hardy
Strong blunt and nice
Greedy and high on socially acceptable addictions.
Heads bob along a highway
On rides that their parents bought
Only because they lost to stubbornness.
Prostitutes are now mothers
And children roam the streets
Of what used to be a red light district.
Daily fights on a road
That's always full
A road that anyone from here will ever know.
Pouring in like sheep Cursing instead of a "baa"
Whizzing past the sing that reads,
"Welcome to Kathmandu"