Two parts of my heart
The torn and the not-so-torn
Have begun to exist in close proximity
In perfect disharmony

An apology for a shelter, just constructed
With a weathered tarpaulin for a roof
Describes my princely castle
By the roadside

The torn portion is desperate
For leftovers, the bits and pieces
Strewn here and there, casually, carelessly
By those with a wholesome appetite and a small soul

But the not-so-torn wants to rebel
With morsels of leftover pride, gradually shrinking
But still beating with feeble pangs
Within my emaciated body

Should I or should I not
To be or not to be
The first time dilemma
Of a new refugee on the street

Subir Chakraborty / 22nd March 2018