not maybe this week
nor even in this month,
maybe not in this lifetime,
this isn't the last streak of sunray radiating your window pane,
these drops of rain aren't
the last ones to be collected in a plastic bucket,
that puddle isn't the only left in which
someone spoils his pants,
The story doesn't end here.
A story never ends,
it just gets transformed,
a comedy turns into tragedy,
a monologue becomes a dialogue,
highways end up at dead ends,
some dead ends crushed to the way
to a broadway.
Life is strange, you never know
in which character you play,
an iron lady or the man of clay,
the left or the right path to drive
or keep encircling at a point and think
you are alive?
The centripetal always wins
over the centrifugal.
And we are bound to stay on the path,
the right track, as they call it.
A bunch of idiots as we are,
keep walking, walking and
walking...
Saima n.
An Idiot.
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