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On life and its vagaries

What the roads deign to tell me

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What the roads deign to tell me

The roads often talk to me.

Of the footsteps they bore
– Light, heavy controlled, wild
Timid, brazen, covered and bare
The whole gamut-

They talk,
Of the wheels that flew over them-
Leaving treads in blackening hues
Of dripping oil, pieces of paper
Of snot, spittle, beer can caps
Of dung, chewing gums, sizzling wrappers
Of the inane trivia that gets spewed-
On their inert unsuspecting parts……..

They talk,
About the seasons they went through
Of rains, floods, blistering suns, of dust
Winds, animal hooves, of trenches sunk in,
Forks joined, of rivers in spate
And road rollers etching their marks-
All over them to make them cringe

And I am content to listen.

I have seen a road crying quite-blood
When someone got under a pickup truck
The man, the van, and I were
Caught quite unawares
And the only one to cry was the road.
It streamed silent black tears
Pooling them together, to spread
A map of woe
On its shivering and sagging breast……..

The roads often tell me of the tears they shed
Throughout their lives over our bad
(See these shards of broken glass,
Think you, they are from any windscreens?
Think you, we have no lachrymal glands?
They are the crystallized results-
Of our sad contact with your deeds…….
They are our tears on your
Broken lives)
I tend to agree, thinking of accidents bloody,
Tempers frayed, discharged guns, liaisons dishonorable
Deceits, back stabs, conspiracies, violent moods
Riots, mayhem, and what not that they saw.

The roads often talk to me.
And I am content to listen.

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