We have Walked.
For sometime now.
Some distance has been covered.
And we still loaf about.

In the corruption
of palid Department Buildings,
duskily lit Tea-Stalls, sullen piazzas.
Some silhouettes heave and pant.
Love drips from the sidewalks
and we soil our feet.
In conservative steps.

Then we reach the end.
And part for a new beginning.
New steps in newer scepticisms’.
New evenings in newer insecurities.
Only the tired eyes of an effete sun
sees this incessant continuity of pain.
Of Death. Of desperation.
By Rote.