The Soul who Walks

I walk the streets of the city. When the Sun halts at the horizon waiting for the stars to appear, in sigh of relief of ending its task of traversing the sky, I walk through the mob rushing back home from their workplaces to their near and dear ones. I cover the streets bathed in the dusty warmth of the day and I stand by the tree nursing the singing birds at the rosy dusk. I see a crumpled dry leaf struggling to run away with the wanton of winds weeping and wailing to fly up in the sky but slamming on the ground with few drops of drizzle on it making it too heavy to flee.
With the street lights twinkling breaking the darkness of the night, I walk the streets as they turn quiet. I hear so many unheard voices on the streets sometimes contented with the triumph of their achievements and sometimes mellowed and lamented by the pain of disgruntlement.
As the dark night silhouettes the city like a blanket, I walk the crossroads followed by my shadow and I see that crumpled leaf stuck against a wall waiting for a new day to fly off to its utopian world. The rhythmic stridulating noise of the cricket breaking the silence of the night, reminds me of the living world that prevails here and I see the very advent of a new day in this city with the misty dew drops falling on the flower buds. I walk through the trees in the park as I sense the deepness of the saddle from the bushy leaves and with the passing of each hour I walk into a different street. The bark of the dog, the husky sound of the gas stove at the local chai (tea) shop tingle a bell in my ear and I long for the dawn after the dark night.
The lazy skyscrapers in the city try to hold the sun with the unfailing hope of not waking up early but the indomitable glimmering rays follow the relentless time of their routine to shine upon the city. Thus comes a new day in the city, a new flow of life in the busiest hour of conurbation.
But my walk doesn’t stop here. It pauses for the daylight though. Am I a wanderer on bare feet strolling from one corner of the city to the other to savor its grandeur, or am I another shadow under the tree looking at those crossroads with unrequited queries in my mind? Or am I a poet whose drifting mind has driven his feet to the swampy roads in search of words which are not there in the pages of his journal.
I am… the moment that descends upon the city with the setting of the golden sun! Look for me in the swampy tent of the vagabond on the footpath and you will find me there, look for me in the eager eyes of the office goer waiting for his train at the station to take him home and you will find me there too, look for me in the cry of the child for want of milk and I will be there, look for me in the tears of the widow who’s love has never walked the path of the sunset and you will find me there as well. Look for me in the silent shadows of the city and you will sense my presence. With these reflections unveiling the darkness of the city amidst the glitter of its fancy life, I am the moment of silence of unrequited paths and of unfulfilled desires and I walk the streets of the city.