A white river of light
Flows ahead and
Always travels beside,
On the tranquil mornings,
In the grimy suburbs,
Unleashed by a baby-faced wintry sun
High above in a clean sky;
The highway dips abruptly,
And
Rises up again,
Like heated verbal attacks,
Dying out and again revived,
Among the sparring couples,
And
Often heard outside,
Floating on putrid air,
Snatches vicious,
Delivered
In shrill/low tones,
By lovers turned warriors;
The moving shadows of the trees
Along the lean highway
Nod and smile,
And quickly
Draw various intricate patterns
On the rough rolled-out concrete,
Like a child doing rangolis outside,
The line-drawings moving about,
A chiaroscuro different,
Being trampled upon
Mercilessly,
By the manic cars and buses
Speeding by;
And a flight of happy cranes,
Circling all of a sudden,
Above the green
Tree tops,
A startling sight
For the crying child,
Sitting on the road,
Outside her hovel,
Looking fixed at the
Blue-white clear sky.
