These days are orchestrated by hustle and bustle
And hardly do people listen to the blowing whistle
Every moment is filled with speed and rush
And none is left without a propelling push
Even the storms don’t wreck the tiny beams
Of what resembles the twin of dreams
As if this means little of much value
Every youth drives into the open avenue
The unborn read the scripts of heroes
And are swift to advance their own zeroes
Who insists then on blowing a trumpet
Or sounding the beagle in earnest?
The narrator may start the story today
But for the full yarn, she has set no date.


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