They tell me, the earth is at boiling point and may puke its melting core on us

They tell me, the burden of humanity has broken earth's bones and may shake some weight from her shoulders,

They tell me, The burning pyre of existence is blinding the eyes of sun and someday we might inhale snow,

They tell me, the mounting shallow pride of men has filled up depth of oceans and someday we might not walk again but float.

I laugh out loud,
Smile in pretensions mirth.
I tell myself,
i know, i know.
And then dance.

Slithering flyovers and soaring sky-scrapers sum up Shanghai,
which wakes to the silhouette of a shiny future and sinks early
into a concrete dream.

People pour out of the rabbit holes which lie hidden from the naked eyes blinded by the sizzling razzmatazz of a showpiece city.

The Huangpu flows bifurcating the east from the west, a new high-riser grows on its shore, another brick towards the ever-shrinking sky.

The Gemini sun smirks and smiles, sometimes slipping into sudden silence. It rains and shines almost simultaneously, the wind chills the spine.

The Bund (Wai Tan) grows on you a little everyday, newly wed couples take pictures, travellers stroll as vendors sell ice-creams.

A plethora of colours splash on the streets of Nanjing road, shinning brightly in cosmopolitan hue. Oriental Pearl and Jin Mao shine through the night, only the clock tower keeps time.

The Old Jazz Band still plays at the Fairmont peace hotel, tugged way in a forgotten old charm where the six octogenarians keep their date with history.