One bright morn, guided by ambition,
And wanderlust,
His feet have come, to meet a new city,
To greet new dust.
Which clings on to them, like sorrow’s cousin,
Which we call hope,
And it promises ‘The city is great!’
Which we call hope.
Nearly noon, he has unpacked,
His heart’s luggage, his aching rack,
He takes a whiff of city’s scent,
And wonders what the dust had meant.
‘The city is great!’ and so, he must walk,
Down the new lanes.
He must trust the dust, and its purple soot,
And meet new names.
But the city’s quick, he sees not people
He’s seen, again.
Here people walk with many stains of touch
And remain sane.
Twilight, and strange weariness hits,
These people talk, these people kiss,
And yet their love never quite fits,
These people part, but never miss?
These people, they’re traders, they deal in hearts,
And smile so dull,
Not cruel, not without a soul. They are just,
Transactional.
Rotates endlessly, this organised Mob,
No one complains.
He guesses it’s simpler, than finding love,
And going through pains.
They’ll pick their pens and write of love,
And in the same breath, elegies.
Their tongues of crow, and words of dove,
And each word is affection’s fees.
At midnight, he gives in to this,
And buys a cold and painted kiss.
He drinks the city, dark and deep,
And sells the soul he meant to keep.
New morning breaks on graying skies,
With city dust within his eyes.
He joins the march, he joins the stain,
A trader now, and mostly sane.