Time is a road without terminus
And life ends at a stage.
The pilgrims travel in the dark desert
Harping on to themselves
Amidst twinkling glow-worms.
They walk and talk
Till the crickets of their illusions
become dumb.
Then they stand suddenly
’Stiff and cold.
They stop their journey
Without grumbling about any option;
As ‘a listless prey’ to the vengeful end.