Split times.

The past was not a pocket full of roses.

But the breezy fragrance of the past

With friends stable and steadfast,

is a matter of the mind, made up of mortar.

I respect my youth that knew no poverty,

Though prosperity was then,a popular myth.

When the paisa perfectly ruled the routine,

The rupee tactfully took the back seat.

Things were cheaper,but life was invaluable.

Humanity was spontaneously cosmetics free,

On faces flowing with the waves of the mind.

Society was naturally naughty, but rarely haughty.

Days cycled through the streets,and on buses sharing seats,

Drawing moments of delight, from mutually borne weight. 

Memories of my travelled times, slap my ageing brain,

For its being a bastard of tradition and treachery.

The present is a bulldozer,racing on rupee's rowdyism.

My lost youth scorns me for sitting in a corner,isolated, 

With my fragile fingers toying with my mobile and laptop,

As though my fellow passenger of my train,is nonexistent.

I tell my forgotten youth, that I am learning more today.

But that now invisible guy, bullies me for my self-betrayal.

"Can you save your soul with apps, in the absence of human laps?"

Asks my lean but lofty past, with its mouth full of wisdom. 

My beastly brain begins to bark like an unchained street dog.

A dog barking at its own shadow, cannot bridge the gap of times,

Split by sabotaging monsters of change, sucking the beats,with bytes.

P. Chandrasekaran.