Swamped without a plan, they drown in the bog of their own creation. Their plans trickle down the drains, washed out with the swill into the once-magnificent Vembanad.

The plumbing does not work anymore. And why they do not know.
Dig a canal here, widen one there. And find a sitting duck for they cannot find anyone to blame. They do not know which side the earth slopes or where the drain ends.

The roads become taller and earth harder, where will the water flow. Not into the gutters, into our homes and the roofless shelters of the baren.

Every rain we cry, every shower they blame, it is you, not us that is to blame.

Urban Grouse