Our Progress Is Progressing Poem by HARVENDRA SINGH

Our progress
is progressing.

Only in shabby shanties
you may find a few faces—
flawless, full of form.

They half‑fill
their hungry bellies
and still serve, in silence,
their old and young ones.

But along the dry streets
of prosperity
walk mostly the dead shadows
And dwell the last relics
of humanity.

Asylums are crowded,
crèches are full.
Old age is moaning,
infancy is sobbing.

The young lasses
are being profaned,
their souls defiled.

Some caretaker couples
go on pilgrimages,
and some to their honeymoons.

Some are lost
in social media screens,
and some in their endless moneymoons.

Anyway, let's say—
our progress
is progressing.