Rain fell on midnight and a sleep,
On outer walls’ inside basement,
By lake where they build homes.
The city lakes they had forgotten
They were waters of green moss,
Like fish ponds in Bengal homes.
No paper boats in a street’s river,
We send boy -boy , houses down.
It is rubbish jars floating in cellar.
It is not beauty of hill’s cascade
But stink from greedy stomachs
That makes lakes of our houses.
Here are more motors whirring
To make basement less of lake.
Their sound is rain on midnight.
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