Holding on a plastic train,
I try to cross a busy lane.
Cars pass by and motorcycles scoot;
Coats, ties, hats, trousers and boots.
I look to the right, I look to the left;
Walking machines— emotions bereft..
I take a step forth, and then I move back;
Foxes, jackals, wolves—all march in a pack.
Trucks honks hard and buses fumes;
An old bot breaks down a new resumes.
I look to my reflection on a cab passing by,
I see screws and nuts and bolts and a digital eye.
Is it a dream or am I awake!
Is this our future where everything is fake?
Should I talk to the President and give him a clue?
Or brush away my thoughts like nothing is new?