I watched in horror,
your pride was tilting.
The landscape was losing the freedom of anonymity.
The labels were rejecting,
the moods of winds,
and embarrassing the consensual sleep.
Where was the need of constructing the arches
on ugly roads,
when mob was indulging in incestuous manner?
Incognito moves the truth, crestfallen.
I had been on edge since long.
This human atrophy was appalling,
while I was searching a doomed culture,
in orchards of wits.
Two thousand seven, and still our angular limbs
cannot move the time.