It is my way or highway

But my way is the highway ,where I stand alongside acacias against their blue sky. The acacias boast some plastic bags , as tribute to our urban living. Pure plastic bags tremble before nature’s wind.

On the highway is the jute string cot, at the dhabha ,where I wish to lie down looking through the blue sky. The acacias on the side of the highway are green tribute to the loneliness of the highway.

There are images on the tar. The tar melts and turns a blue sky vapor. Through the vapor we see a car coming ,twisted in its shape and sound. In God we trust,it says on the back.


Acacias stand just short of a blue,
Handy eats for the passing goats.
They harbor a plastic bag or two.

The highway is unending acacias,
Always standing short of blue sky,
A green under its breathless blue.

Acacias are short and squat and look through their blue eyes. The passing goats crane their necks to reach their top foliage and it is as if the goats are trying to eat a bit of the blue sky.

The goatherd touches the goats with his long stick and urges it on. When he touches the goat with stick he also shouts something unprintable to the goat.

But it does not really matter. In any case , whatever he has said , nobody is going to print.


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