When sleepy eyes can't hear the knock,
A dent in a crumbling wall is easy,
The latch slips away from its image,
By then, the door of need has transformed into a formal gate of arrival and departure
Carriers remove the layers of boxes for their favorite box,
They know the profit and loss associated with each box.
Even after opening our eyes,
It takes a long time to believe that the very box in which the most precious items were folded has been stolen
The heart is pounding, the tongue is numb
Our habit of making a spectacle of others
brings a crowd of onlookers to our doorstep as well.l
Every onlooker has the clarinet of help,
and the ability to identify who stole your box.
You want the crowd to express sympathy
Tell them to forget what happened
Console them that perhaps it was God's will
Or say that God said in the Gita that whatever happens is for the good
And don't forget to say that this will not harm your reputation
But the mob is aware of all your weaknesses
The crowd is not gathered to coax, cajole, persuade, or explain.
You are at their every whim.
And you have to say in irritation,
"Damn you, God, damn you!"
The elders have an eyewitness account for every incident
The younger ones have a right to the mirror of curiosity
You get many tips
You claim that you can find your valuables in any of these
What an irony!
Every prescription leads you to a fortune teller
who has a ready-made name, costume, voice, and appearance
for you to choose from among them the thief of your choice
He leaves you with a box a lifelong story
and eternal regret to reveal to your loved ones
Those who don't follow the prescriptions
have to endure a lifelong cycle of police, lawyers, courts, and bribes
