The Bus Ride

THE BUS RIDE

I waited at the bus stop for a ride to the city.
It’s a pity that the city lacks many car parks.
Finding the hidden needle in a haystack is a chore,
Grueling and draining to spot a parking space in the city.

The bus from the depot, fresh and empty,
Halts at the stop to take me in.
Finding a seat of my choice was easy as pie,
Windows divulging the street life along the way.

The bus halts at stops along the conurbation.
More people get on the bus: young, old, boys, and girls.
The physiognomy of people reveals many things—
Happy, sad, anxious, worried, bored, or impassive they are.

Your life is like a bus ride, seventy or eighty years long.
It starts from the depot, so clean and empty.
A driver from above takes control of your engine.
On its way, there are many stops, some posh, others mussy,
Some with graffitied walls, others with broken glass.

Happiness gets on the bus very early from the start,
Filling the bus with joy, laughter, and warmth,
But gets off the bus with giggles after a stage or two.
Troubles with heavy loads get on the bus at all stops.
Some leave the bus early, but most of them stay on,
Creating havoc in the bus and ruining your facile journey.

Many buses, many routes, and myriads of commuters,
All reach the final destination, the magnificent city.
Some buses are super fast and reach the city pretty early,
While others take a very long time—a pathetic journey indeed.
The engine requires regular maintenance and care.
The pain, the sickness, the hopelessness, and the despair—
No matter what, the driver takes you there, the grand city.

I wish my bus reaches the city very soon.
No more stops, no more passengers of any sort I want.
I dream of the gleaming city and its skyline.
Let the bus stop there, the final destination, 

Yours and mine.

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