paradise lost

self clicked — Goa

a concrete road
cleaving a field
getting nowhere
faster

five bedroom villa
was once a coconut grove
only bits of green now
in designer pots
adorning the balcony

the chefs
the waiters
the patrons
all come in from afar
claiming to serve
and eat
authentic local food

why must it always
end like this
the destruction of
what they had come
to experience
the hills advertised
now laid low
ugly brown
through the green
till all that remains is mud
which flows unhindered
into the plains
with rains
how romantic can they make that to be

the advertisements
promising bliss in paradise
more rush in
like the wild west
new rules written
old ways forgotten
everything now a faceless template
what they call peace
is desolation manmade

the sands of time
at Miramar await
Perry’s trumpet
and Lorna’s voice