A humming word

wrapped in soot, pulverized rays and a circuitous route, the itinerants zoom and zap their way.. they toil in air conditioned boxes and sweat and pant in their abode. it's only in the evening when the sweat evolves into a lullaby of the wind and the twinkling lights that adorn the various high rise complexes look like twinkling stars dotted on the naked sky... the meaningless infiltration of desires into dreams seems fruitive.

There's a monkey stitched to the fabric of our soul. It jumps from day to day, year to year, decade to decade. Its mouth shaped like an empty bowl and its vacuous eyes pouring hunger. It sprints from tree to tree for a fruit or with its primate mates. Sips water from the nearest lake and ambles under a tree for shade. It ain't sure if its manmade but it gropes the distasteful plastic leaves. The monkey finally seeks solace under the twilight on a terrace. Spreading its arms and legs on the mattress, it awaits for its eyes to close and its fantasy to begin. The monkey is now unstitched from the soul. The soul celebrates. It sits by the parapet wall and looks at the balmy evening--a lullaby.