A destination broken down in many phases,
the time and scene changes, one gazes.
A fleet of autorickshaws, a crowd of men,
changing seats, changing places now and then.
The rolling wheels, guiding through signal lights,
a conundrum of life, one of the many fights.
Eyes on the road, breathing at a fast pace,
filling daily bread and winning the daily race.
The turmoils in their life, a witnessing sky,
being cut down by flyovers running high.
The series of apartments, like cubicles -
hasn't worked wonders, really no miracle.
People jailed within those black glass panes,
can neither hear nor see prattering of rains.
I ponder, what if they would actually hear,
falling of water pearls, clean and clear?
The sun rolls over, round and round -
the men with no rest are to duty bound.
The horizon seen in silhouette of dul grey -
the next new day does new hopes portray.
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