I run on the filthy paths
Full of sickness and an unfit agony, amongst fellow men of gloomy eyes, competing each other to win a meaningless race.
Men who feed the wolves in their hearts the blood of their brother and who seek shabby sweetness out of the shit that comes from the Holy Bowels of Heaven.

I run on the filthy paths
In the land of eunuchs, scary and scared and confused eunuchs,
Skeptical of their choices.
Eunuchs whose Gods rise from a certain lot and who are themselves eunuchs.

I run on the filthy paths
In my Nike and dream of the sweetest carbonated Coke, for I am the millenium’s few final children, brown in my skin and awed in my mind.
Awed of the million splendid things Uncle Sam brings me and of the million splendid women from around me who claim his kinship.

I run on the filthy paths
With a dream that the eunuch Gods will soon put red carpets for us,
That there will come a day, in someplace better where life will be easier and won’t cheat on us and we can think of love and matters of hearts and not brood over wars.

I run on the filthy paths
In democracies and republics,
Misused and misunderstood democracies! Ugly Kakistocracies! Corrupt Theocracies! Beloved Dictatorships!
Democracy where a man can strangle a man and get away in peace but communities cry and shriek and protest and destroy  when pens and pencils pierce their soft butts.

I run on the filthy paths
My steps governed by Nirvana and half-smoked blunts.
Pacing like a mad man, rushing through the crowds in my ecstatic vision of finishing the race,
Only ruining a moment from the eternal, boring marathon of life.

I run on the filthy paths
Nostalgic, thinking of the grass-lit nights on concrete benches in Godly rain where we envisioned a Green aurora
And also of the drunk stillness in the wake of the New Year on Mumbai-footpaths, inches away from death
And of a thousand other endeavors of the adventurer who used to reside within me.

I run on the filthy paths
Where imaginative souls are utterly destroyed by the electronic media in it’s electric charm
And the rest of them destroy themselves slaving for the electronic media,
On quests of worthless glory – praises and sweet words of people from across continents, and of sex with whomever they want equally much in brothels as much in homes.

I run on the filthy paths
Where sometimes I do not belong
To the incomprehensible madness of learned souls
And feel stranger than I should
Wanting to dive in the oceans of air from sky-kissing concrete roofs.

I run on the filthy paths
Unsure of what I want, unhappy in my shoes
Wandering like a hobo, looking for the kicks, enlightened by the Alchemy of life that the happiness is always under the cypress, under my head,  looking for my cypress in its unimaginable form about myself.

I run on the filthy paths
Absorbing the pessimistic prophecies of wise sadists in whom we trust
Brooding and yet pacing all the same, keeping my breath
Because I see you run too.