Highway Chant

Fading day on the rear-view mirrors a dove in fragile curve….

Eighty, ninety, hundred…

Horizon chews the straight lines.

Bumblebees flying within, hitting windowpanes, have been the yellow existence daylong.

You have not sung, you have not talked.

The caramel trickles in between, sweet, sticky and sickening at times.

You have not licked, you have not feigned.

The placental sun bleeds to a shadow-less gray.

Long back we heard about those knobby hills and the funicular railway.

We grew together in the perambulator and laughed.

The psychedelic traffic heads nowhere.

The flattened parabola regurgitates curves zigzagging the wheels.

Our GPS is silent for a long time.