I walk by the streets
I sing an old song
there are some merchants
who hawk their stories
some old, some freshly baked
I fall for this one
the one with mountains and rivers
there’s freshly stoked tea somewhere
the lump of ginger, I feel it in my throat
There’s a tea stall on the other side
the one where people brew their dreams
An old man pours a story
the chai wallah flavors it
I sip a few words,
I try to gulp some down
My story seems incomplete
I add some more lies, sugar coated
they blend well, the stories
but some words fall down
unknowingly, or knowingly perhaps
in my cup of tea
I call for another one
some more storms steamed in
my half-empty cup
my half-filled stories
I crush, and swing them around
As I start again,
I walk by the streets
I sing an old song.
