My Lonely Swing

My lonely swing at the end

Of the green grass

Still creaks in this heat:

Some leaves resting there

And hundred raindrops wetting it,

It sings it lonely song.

Maddened by the wind

And comforted by the tree,

The rusted swing still creaks

In the dusty afternoon.

On and on.

Rusted, dirty and unkempt—

Back in the corner,

Lies what once had been my ride.

Webs of delusion

Spun by the spiders

Have shrouded the pathways

And the singer can’t be heard anymore.

Lights of the long lane

Still guide the stranger;

But to a lonely land.

A lonely land—

Where no one speaks,

Where no one plays,

Where everyone has deserted

Everyone else;

At a stroll that evening,

My eyes pictured fan blades

Moving at the speed of life

And the light becoming dim.

Gaudily dressed women

Made it look like Autumn

While it was summer still.

A broken soul thinks and speaks

To himself and me,

His doubts and his sorrows

Are all about the bad world;

A thinker now, he is beginning to learn.

The last time I noticed ‘Land sold’

Was nine years back,

And since then I haven’t treaded that field.

Some have gone away,

Some have passed away;

But their memories still linger in my old lane:

My old lane.

Lifeless, desolate and silent—

The dust-covered lane

Still cries out to its lost people to return:

To return.

Here, away from the breezy memories

Of the erstwhile days,

I watch thousand raindrops

Sliding down the roofs

And take frequent walks

In a drenched evening—

Thinking, Dreaming, Living.