Sunday, September 26, 2010



Late as in yesterdays,
My morn minutes creep,
Tensed under the dew drops,
At country bus-stop.

Boys young dream;
Girls shy droop;
All wait while minds roam,
Till the bus does stop.

Buses come, and buses go,
Never moved the stop as village mine.
Shops two, a tea stall so,
Breathing through the lungs of rustics seen.

Sellers, workers, and beggars:
At the bus-stop all roost,
Barter their experiences,
Then flit to their worms fast.

Waiting the same bus,
Men in creeds dissident,
And in hues diverse:
All blend one in intent.

Always I miss my bus,
Being late everyday;
The Boss frowns and forgives,
Sure I would get the right bus one day.


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