He is a begging man
The happiest of his clan,
Passes through the lanes
Thinks of the aeroplanes.

Knocks at several doors
And smiles at the whores,
Sings annals across streets
Forgets all his retreats.

With a SITAR in his hand
Attracts children at bus-stand,
Greets people at the bars
Feels as a moon among stars.

Crosses hamlets, villages, towns,
Counts the rules and their crowns,
Recites of his bread and saga
In his own tune and RAGA.

Minds not even drenched in rain
Visits railway stations sans pain
Miles and miles, hours and days
On foot reaches shores of bays.
Sleep on a bed of longings
And a pillow of his belongings,
When the fateful night is killed
He wakes up with smiles all spilled.