We crave for the green,
He waits for the red,
While the others move,
He stalks the dead.
With beads of heat,
On his sunburnt skin,
He holds them,
Like one of his kin.
He comes at the window,
Makes a sideways twist,
I run my eyes,
through his book list.
A struggle ensues,
Numbers come alive,
He wants fifty,
I offer twenty five.
He settles on thirty,
As he senses its time,
The hasty exchange is done,
He gets out of the line.
My wait is over,
The lane is alive,
With cars worth lakhs,
And hypocrits who drive.
He smiles in despair,
At the irony of life,
While he waits for the red,
And the dead to be rife.