Twenty and two storeys high,
I stretch my arms to touch the sky
The orange panes will soon turn blue
My eyes will meet my eyes in rue
From here do we the birds of prey
Watch the mundane twilight-play
Shoulders take a break from bags
Burning the day's worries in the day's last fags
The music slowly ups its beat
In Coffee Days they discuss Tweets
Numbers start to come to life
Swipe cards turn to mistresses and wives
Rickshaws worm through gaps in-between
Trying to turn red fates to green
Temples resound in evening prayers
Pockets of hope in urban despair
Neon fantasies faintly glow
Pinching their skirts up, suggestively so
A plot played out to be hopelessly same
I am the lone audience, behind orange panes
My corporate shirt stoically resists
the creases that beg to let go of checklists
Rapunzel wants to let down her hair
Down to the streets and breathe the orange air
