Walking the streets at dusk
is worth a discovery,
busy streets, crowded shops,
slurping sounds from the tea stalls
indigenous hill tracks maidens buying vegetables,
But at the crossroads when I stand
Just a few yards away from my house
tickling aroma of roasted steak
reminds me of T S Elliot’s poem
with windy winter night, steaks, leaves flying all over,
Failing to conjure up the poem
my lungs fills with acrid smoke of cigarette
my second of the night,
I grope my way home
A bitter, treacherous taste ruffles me up,
reminds of my foibles.
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