There was once this street,running parallel to the river,full of corpses of the old and the young,of same age to the air that's rotting them to dust. Its been years they all lie like a baby sleeping to the voice of its mother. They wear colours of thread from rich heritage. Their hands have bracelets of gold with images of god moulded to the centres. Their faces smile though dead, and are filled with ignorant bliss. They all lie dead as the days die into nights and nights give birth to days. They all lie dead as the stones are carved to images from the epics. They all lie dead as kings melted to democracies. They all lie dead with no memory of how all this began to grow into what's today. They faced floods and the sun. They faced love and war. They faced the wheel and cancers. They faced everything with a smile. They faced everything with a hope. A hope that's protected by faiths, by votes, by rules and doctrines,by law and order of the state,by fear and trust,by the harmful gods and gentle devils. A hope that's humanity. A hope that's omnipresent. A hope that kindles god in them. Till then they shall lay dead, in the street that runs parallel to the river of life.
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