Here, mornings rise with pancakes,
‎And polished talks of pedigree grace, While black money trades silent hands— Innocents caught in a darker place.
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‎Fools count coins from shadow deals, Blind to the cost that truth reveals.
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‎Here, noon comes with gourmet pride, No one sees the farmer’s side.
‎ Millions dine for public eyes—silver plates and pixel prides.
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‎Truth and lies now blur in code, Everything’s real estate on this road.
‎The gentle souls are running away—
‎A plastic vase is all that stays.

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