From the midst of the cigarette's smoke
coming right out of my nose,
I spotted my childhood;
hung on a cart that stood at the street corner.
Broken, shabby yet colorful and embodied,
with the things that actually defined happiness.
In a space so small like the one in her heart,
it contained more love as ice cream, chips and some candy bars.
We didn't ask what class or caste he belonged to,
nor he bothered of us, the bond was so strong.
With squalid hands, he served us joy,
no fear of pandemic would make him coy.
Who says money can't buy happiness?
Ask him and the kids who ran his small business.
In the midst of smoke and the nostalgic fog,
the cart seems to disappear in some corners.
That kid in me wants to run after it,
but the bars of the suit can't let it go free.
He too knows that I have grown well,
a gentleman with name, fame but no humane.
Now, I can just wish to be a kid again,
a boundless spirit that swayed everywhere,
and ran to come first,
whenever the cart at the street corner appeared.
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