The Summer of Two Sides
Summer is a privilege.
Like surnames, lands and currency notes,
Forte of the fortunate few.
Lounging in the luxurious lockdown.
Cocooned in air conditioned rooms,
sipping on chilled minty martinis,
pondering over poetry and pubg.
Inscriptions on Instagram,
musings on faux philosophy,
moaning about the missed cruise,
the long meetings,
that odd shaped momo in the take-out.
Afraid, yet not too much.
Deck chairs at a proper distance
basking under a different sun,
a controlled and cordial sun.
Unlike the vindictive ball of fire
bearing down on piteous huts,
where wet backs toil throughout,
swathed in sweat, not sunscreen.
Eyes dull and hopeless,
throats parched and dead.
Stomachs so ashamed,
that they rush inside,
deprived of their usual fix,
tepid, tasteless yet tangible water.
They do not think, they bleed.
They do not moan, they simply die.
No captions, no hashtags,
not even three stanzas in this poem.
The summer spares no muddy river,
Only the crystal glasses escape its wrath.
Luxury is incessant,
cold champagne is never scarce.
It is the vital that implodes,
unambitious water breathes its last.
Seasons exist for the elite,
The others barely exist.