The Bubbles

The bubbles fly higher than the pollution of the city — above the stink, above the toxic, suffocating smoke which chokes the hope of life in children who will never see adulthood.

Their origins are always ironic, in places especially designed to cull the hope, the dreams and hence the rebellion they encapsulate.

I see them.
I see them floating above the monument in which names of the men who were thrown and ofcourse, killed in the fields where they stage the theatre of madness. They call it war.
The sacrificed goats are named as ‘martyrs’.

And yet the bubbles are born around the green fields of this temple of horseshit.
They dodge the flame which burns with the purpose of slaughtering these mutineers.
They float above it, mocking it with their survival. 
Dreams can never be killed with the warning of a gun and the command of patriotism.

A general tries to scare some children with his blabbering. “March,” he screams and they play tag. “Obey,” he shouts and they show him the finger. When he threatens them with court martial, they fling some mud on his face.
The children are the ones who create the bubbles.

The bubbles try to surpass the sky. Many burst on the way. Some become stars.
All stars are bubbles who have reached.

I see the stars from the valley which was once heaven. What happened?
They burst the bubbles.

But they will be born again.
Expect them.

The people had eaten into the tales of the soldiers and the spies and the terrorists. They had believed them when they had said that the individual is born to be the whore of something larger — to religion, to the nation, to the cause.

The kids walking in the streets know that its a fuckers-tale, meant to procure large-scale prostitutes from the streets of the city which was once a dream itself.
They will rebel.
They are the bubbles.

They’ll rise again. They have to, for that is the law — the individual is larger than the swarm.

I imagine them floating to the place from which their city derives its nickname.

My city derives its nicknames from its dick.
In its streets, the morality-whores search the streets for girls who are free. They try to chain them with brooms and bangles and kids and marriage.
“If you love your culture, stay at home.”

But when they go back home, their bubbles take down their propaganda and their looting machines with a mask of anonymous rebellion.
They come back to the streets, strutting, their fiery eyes unafraid and their hands clutching knives to hack the penis from which my city derives its nickname.

Their rebellion floods the city with bubbles of fire.

A tower is under construction. It is the bubble machine that is the future of the world.
Children work hard on it. They give it endless hours of labour, sweat and their sweet smelling dreams.
It is meant to purify the air of the city, to filter out the toxic blood which pollutes its river.

It is the future of the city.

The city is the future of the world.

It is coming.

The bubbles will flood the streets.

Expect them.

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