The Charioteer



When crossroads confuses
With horns and lights.
Puzzled with where
The left and right.

At dusk when motors
Roar over workers.
Getting back to nests
Lazy like stoners.

In rhythmic tapping
And percussion of chains.
Flowing from the city
To the rural lanes.

In calmness and
Not in agony.
In satiety
And not in fatigue.

An old, snow beard
Dark charioteer.
Sings highly
For his beautiful mare.

Who sniffs and nods
To appreciate.
The melodies of times
Of her mother’s days.

The charioteer sings
In ignorance.
Only to the mare
And himself.

Hence passes me
Pleasantly.
To the village with
Least melancholy.


 -Ak

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