I walk roads
withering at crosses
and roads become
a behemoth. What happened
to them? I ask.
When I was a boy they smelt,
looked, and behaved different.
There were cart horses ploughing them
not these obese shuttling cars?
Roads vanish, they die, they are
incarcerated, my friend said.
This is not the age of roads.
This the age of car- horses
sleighing down tarmacs, whining
with red, green and blue lights.
Oh, he continued, roads are
mere slaves, they are used
as battle fields to splash colours
like the Holi Festival.
And, I went to a road and asked
tremulously: “Is this true?”
He said yes it is true but roads
have a comeback fervour.
Come back to me when age
overtakes and maurauders
come with weapons, technology
and a mad house of grass growing
in Wilderness.
I wept, and the road
dropped silently an emerald tear.
