An empty bottle of mustard oil
lies beside an empty bottle of whiskey.
A two-hundred-milliliter bottle of soft drink
rests beneath a one-liter bottle of mineral water.
A cluster of empty noodle packets
the kind that promise a meal in two minutes
lies huddled together.
Peels of fruits and vegetables
peek through the gaps.
Crumpled chocolate wrappers tremble with fear.
A sudden gust of wind
tempts them to flee the heap.
Empty cigarette packs and incense-stick wrappers
argue among themselves,
each accusing the other
of spreading the foul smell.
This place reveals that, despite
the government's efforts and regulations,
plastic bags continue to be used
without restraint.
A cow is eating plastic bags
mixed with scraps of refuse.
A stray dog gnaws on mutton bones.
The dog does not know
that the taste it enjoys
is the taste of its own blood
seeping from wounded gums.
A few ragged skeletons
search for life in the garbage.
On the nearby road,
the common man hurries past,
trying to escape the stench,
for he can no longer bear it.
Standing beside the garbage,
a poet spits on it and walks away.
He would surely smash the head
of anyone who told him
that by spitting on the garbage,
he had only increased its volume.
Shining in glossy brochures,
Stinking on dark streets,
This is mad development.
