ROAD TO THE END
The sound of carts is not yet dead
Upon the tar coated road of the town;
That lies like a dead snake since my childhood;
They say it lives forever and eat
Grease and diesel direct from wheels;
Nothing is new in this town except the snake;
In the rain it wakes up polished
Ready to slither like a long breath;
It coils and falls around the neck of a turning;
Windows are opened to let
The dead air inside as vendors fall
Asleep over heaps of vegetables with flies;
The beggars have proved that
There is always a chance to survive
As they clap in half hands for a few coins;
Like suppurating sores they
Hold seats by the side of the road
Feeling the cold tar with their underbellies.
Copyright @ Anil Kumar Panda 12/08/2017
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