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AS THEY MOVE


Countless faces everyday
Moving with another nameless face
To places where dreams are rolled
In pieces of paper to be burnt to ashes
By the end of the month.

The ceremony of drifting
To and from the workplace.
Some with vigour and some with pain
Some with hope or utter disdain.
They move on till the end of the month.

Another month rolls in like the local train
Crowded, sweating, gasping for fresh air
In the distance he hears a copious refrain
Seeping through the gaps of hopeless walls of bodies
In the beginning of the month.

Amidst the toil and the ritualistic drift
His universe defies universality
As he moves towards a dream wrapped in silk
Which he keeps in an impenetrable vault
Where neither the crowd, nor the aching back nor the sweat can reach.

His month begins and his month doesn't end
As his time is paused till his own time he launches
And launches himself on its waters
Riding with the breeze in his face

And the sun on his back, into his sea.

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