Ode on a Gulmohar Tree
Thou still unravish'd stand on MG Road
Thou foster-child of the PWD
Sylvan historian, who canst recollect
A flowery tale more sweetly than the rhymes of humans
What leaf-fringed smoke haunts about thy shape
Of older trees felled in thy wake
In Kempegowda or the dales of Cubbon?
What men or gods are these? What scooters loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What bellows and honks? What wild scrambling?
Ah, sorrowful, sorrowful boughs! that will soon shed
Your leaves, and ever bid the Spring adieu;
While disquiet ensue in your place...
For ever clanking and singing ‘toot, toot’.
More happy people! more happy, happy people!
For ever running and ever to be on the go,
For ever panting, and for ever working;
All breathing human poison from above,
That leaves a heart sorrowful and empty,
A burning forehead, a parched tongue,
and memories of a green promenade.