Sunday Poem By Emmanuel Mettles

The Road To Pollachi

The way to Pollachi is gray,
Like a memory hails from the past.
It lays under the sun and chilling rain, numb!
Nothing awakens it, none tucks it to bed!
As an orphan child, perplexed!
Every road has its tale,
An epic of unshed sighs!
The road to pollachi
waits,
for a newborn feet to be stridden on its rough bosom.
Wayside laburnums and wild magnolias are at wait!
To shower yellow and white fragrance and frolic!
The road to Pollachi lies,
Like a wife,
Swiping her tears in darkness,
The road lies to the day sky,
That it’s happy!
But I can see the boiling tar,
and gutters,
Bleeding soul of the road.
A path where, innumerable feet fall, carrying millions of tales of their own!

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