Way

It's dusty outside.

Blurry, discolored. Like an endless straight line.

A thousand years are running, but the heart is boiling.

The beginning and end of hundreds of stories is tireless.

I am the poet of fruitless love,

On the way in search of living poetry.

On alleyways, rusted railings

At manholes or level crossings –

Find out how many pictures of other worlds.

Dusty kids, fat-bellied licks

A row of yellow teeth, twinkling eyes,

Aluminum without buttons on clothes,

Raised on the streets, struggle in the bones.

The mind moves along the path in search of poetry

Tales of the city in folds of tired leather,

Seating with his back burning in the sun,

Bidi in hand, eyes - stomach old hunger.

The more you pass the Rajpath township

I draw a collage of poems, the blue- river of the mind.

Somewhere a mother tightly held her son in her bosom.

She is not hungry and has no milk for her baby

This is the actual life of way, who are depending on it.

Street poets have provided abundant resources

A thousand nobles in the magic of darkness.

Don't embrace, don't choose, the wildness of the city

The fairy tale of the road is not wrapped with memories.