The temple's offerings are cooked here, the

remains at the funeral pyre, the blood in the Panchamrit is also

The soil here is like the taste of a wounded soldier,

let me find it,

entangled in the path of the path,

the path under my feet is lost,

Locks have been placed on the mouths of the taps,

guards have been posted at the gates of the toilets,

guests are tied under the hoarding board of the Devo Bhava,

hungry dogs are tied up,

torn,

entangled in barbed wire,

here is like a shirt of a haliya, the shape of life,

It is burning, placing itself on the base of a lamp

It is carrying the treasure of smugglers until its skin is torn

It is pounding the liver with a stone every day

It is here that the harvest of death

Wherever you walk, wherever you look

The fruits of the poison that bloom in the air

Here the flower of love falls under the tree

The bowl of darkness is full

Inside/outside the walls of the court

It is there – a wholesale and retail market

In the corners

There are secret rooms full of sin

People with dead, rotten bodies

People who eat people

The salty juice of corpses

The salty tears of the mourners

Wandering people

People who drink blood

People here have no face, they are covered in Mukunda

The Mukunda is full of Mukunda on the face

Mukunda is everywhere

Now people have forgotten to be human

This is a city full of Mukunda