― Salman Rushdie
The ceaseless tread of time
The passage of your days
Drawing circles in the rain
And the wind mourns your flight
With a passing distant train
A whistle on the wind,
That slowly fades away.
And all the hope
That never was,
The midnight talks
Of two of us
Pages filled with promise
Return to primal chaos
Your life a non-event
A bright coin lost unspent