Torn blankets covering a hundred bodies to conquer cold, footpaths providing the coziness for their souls to sleep on, traffic allowing the beautiful silence to let their eyes to dream and in that alluring setting depicting the so-called ‘equality’ in the world, there was this man, staring at a building continuously throughout the night. A non-smoker, inhaling the air in the winters of Delhi, sitting right in the face of this polluted gas chamber having been diagnosed with lung cancer, he started smiling at the irony of it all. He looked around at these ordinary lives narrating extraordinary stories, then lied down facing the wrath of the street light and started gazing into the depth of the sky.
For a fresh breath It's time to erase memories Memories of love and care Memories of the sun and the moon Memories of the universe around And all that's left is a void Ready to swallow us all The darkness of the closed eyes The monotony of the infinite universe Maybe just the imagination of a vile mind Or the reality of a faded soul Or the dream of a broken heart It will all vanish one day The writer's words and the written thoughts Only the echoes will remain Taking a road never taken Into the unknown origins of the lost worlds Into the silent roarings of the trapped souls Into the circled time bounded by the timeless clocks And that's how the memories will rebuild A writer peeping into the smoking void Looking for a fresh breath, scribbling “Probably, it is time to erase memories”
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