On the crossroad to the
popular temple I visit,
the less travelled road
leads to a haunted town.
Euphoria had long
gone from this place
and so the warble of blue bird.
The wind there etch
with scent of nameless sorrow
while grey nights weep itself blue.
The streets are smeared
with sky of dusts
while darker alleys hides
the beaten reverie
of childrens and youths.
The shops are lined
with worn out photographs
while trees crumble
in their graves.
Chips of paint are
falling off the walls,
iron railings getting
thin with rust.
All there left
is a cottage of broken dreams,
build up on
the graveyard of happy old days.
An old man lives there.
Who sits in patch of dead flowers
and spent his time with abstraction.
But on ennui afternoons,
he composes songs
that no one listens.
He write poems
that no one reads.
DeMonetized
Comments