Sweet friend, as I depart on this unsure journey,
Unknowing of when I will find the comfort of home again,
I find it crucially fitting,
To leave you this note, populated
With half-hearted lies,
And tearful vagaries
In the hope that you might see,
The work of its rhythm, give you,
Memories, smiles, and gentle tears,
In your times of rare silence and reflection

This place; this place forged us.
And as the world loses itself,
To a mere advertisement of our home,
We know the scent of its blood,
The nature of its dreams, and the height of its ambition
The world knows of our hi-tech labor,
Our early curfews and the pleasantries of our environment
We’ve heard all so much of our upbeat entertainment,
Our free-thinking folk, our corrupt police,
And our dried out lakes
Deep in the hearts of our comrades,
We hear the pleas to rejuvenate this broken forest
To bring the cradling voices of rustling trees,
Back into the streets where our homes stand,
Stained with the smoke that fills our air.

While our sisters, brothers, seem to so often,
Find only avenues for complaint and the need for rectitude,
I see harmony. I see life. I see a living organism,
I see a great city that is decorated in its imperfection,
I see an important chapter in life’s endless dilemma.

As we expand perpetually, forwards, backwards,
Sideways, we grow like a virus.
We seem to only see the need for betterment,
Instead of understand the purpose of our chaos.
We, the children of this magical home,
Have been transformed into warriors for humanity
We are no silent souls encumbered in deep appreciation,
For rare flowers and patiently composed symphonies
We are the children of chaos treading danger’s razor edge,
Forever dancing with our dilemmas and soaking in our problems.
We dare the extremes of human experience,
As we allow our wonderful city to waltz along to its doom.

While the elders say,
Heaven’s where we’re made,
I see it otherwise
It is the smoke in our skies, and the filth in our gutters,
The gruesome stares of rude strangers,
The clouded judgment of our senile seniors,
The tormenting traffic spewing murderous noise,
The pretentious folk, the untrustworthy folk,
The endless fears of an imperfect policing system
It is these that have made me, us.

It is the good folk, the sweetness of our green trees,
The silent streets where we kick around spotted balls,
Cycling to no avail, looking for first love, last love,
Kisses with sweet lovers in heavily treed corners,
Sudden rains in summer and the endless dark monsoon.
Ah, can I say more about our sweet moments in dingy bars,
Our endless conversations in perpetual drunkenness
Our nights of hatching world conspiracies,
In non-lit terraces blazing a big one for the enjoyment of the stars,
Through the half-smoked atmosphere of our growing town
It is these from which the man I am, is born,
These from which you are born

As I travail into more and more ambitious endeavor,
I will always remember,
Remember the midst of the chaos in which I was born
The midst of the orchestral delight,
Perfected with the honeyed breezes of April,
And made sick and interesting by confused inhabitants
A great chaos, a sweet chaos,
But all the same, a chaos that is my mother
Hell! I was born through no heaven man,
I was made not by spirit nor star nor stardust,
I was made by Bangalore, in Bangalore City,
Perfect and whole with imperfect pieces

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