This is a 'Story' written in poetic form on poverty.

I REMEMBER the bye-lane
able bodied dogs resided.
And men squirmed in
huts of dirt, foul smelling
rabbits sat hunched.
The pot melted, frothing rice.
Women, subaltern.
Children chased hoary
shadows.
In the midst of garbage
a lunatic crow
sang songs, hopping
with spirit on roof tops,
where the wind's snivel
decimated tin roof
tops.
All in a hovel;
and they camped there.

The hills lapsed into
metamorphic fury.
Lust was found
only outside the
bye-lane.
I bear the brunt.