Found this poem, I had written when I was interning in Delhi, in the summer of 2005, the first time I ever lived in a big city. These were my impressions
Too fast it moves, Past waiting trees, past sleeping dust, Past electric posts, aging with rust, Past billboards, past green traffic lights, Too fast it moves, past days and nights. No stopping to breathe, to see, to feel, No stopping to rest, to touch, to heal, No stopping to dream, to fathom, to hear, No stopping to shed a pointless tear. What if one day, Like the drops of wax from the candle, say, That rush down in a hurry, but stop midway, Congealed in time, the city stops
Like mannequins staring from lighted shops?
Or is it all too great, too fast, That the inertia forces it out of its cast, And nothing can arrest the mad motion, Brutally demanding a sacrilegious devotion, The hungry infant cries at the pavement, The woman fumes at the lecher's depravement, The old man like an animal draws, Life in a cart, into death's very jaws, Nothing stops the bleeding of the scars, Unseen by wealth-tinted windows of cars, The city lies helpless, like Siamese twins, Painfully conjoined, with a shared skin.