This is a charming lot of peace

Right now, that man owns no

pressure, nor sense of urgency

no uncalled-for call for haste.

When one recedes to solitude,

What’s the point of slowing down

but everything?

In these white lines, with all

scooters and trains and

smoke-belchers taken by the afternoon

slumber, pre-rush hour harmony,

All footsteps are for inklings

Of thought.

Solitude is rare on the streets,

much more in highways with

their claimed order of red, green and yellow,

paralyzing the restless, quieting the excited.

At once, now, all we have is peace,

not fleeting order.

An ambulant rephrases the view in his eyes,

redefines space and concrete pavements.

What astonishing joy, to be alone

in the expansive streets – usually agog with turning heads and jostling arms.

No one else but the wide sky,

perhaps smiling at a rare find.

Pedestrian ni Jesa
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