Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)
The wheels keep turning
1st to 2nd then back to first.
The process is endless till luck turns into dust.
Old men crossing.
Ants armies of them, pedestrians of Mumbai.
Red lights, Orange lights, Green flashes.
Squeezed like jelly between huge buses.
Cars are flooding.
Drivers are honking.
They are talking, to their lost longings.
Lanes are a cutting.
It's freedom flowing.
Meandering of masses.
Through sentinels of policemen.
Watching, waiving, whistling, staring.
The behemoth is moving.
Every one is reaching.
Halting, screeching, yelling, abusing, and enjoying.
Wheels keep turning.
Comments about this poem (The wheels keep turning by Hardik Vaidya )
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