The People of the Machine

To live a respectable life
We the people of big cities
Keep going on like robots.
To keep the home going
We are crushed to fine powder
Under the mill-stone of rising prices.
Home, for which we wove so many dreams,
In the mad race for it,
Our sleep got left behind.
Love and other such fine feelings,
Which are proof of good taste,
We keep them on display in the drawing room.
All the words we speak
Their dates have expired long ago,
The new words in our dictionary
Are miss-prints.
We are like the deaf and dumb
We understand each other’s
                    unspoken needs.
Like a well-practiced typist
His fingers move on my body’s key-board
And I give him
The results he wants.