In the busy road, I hear metal gears turning
Music to my ears, the sound is unconcerningly 
beautiful. I turn, trying to find 
the sound stuck so quick in my mind.
I spy an old man, back hunched, stretched hand
seemingly about to fall, still giving it his all.
A small dagger in his hand, scraping against a turning wheel
sparks flying in his eyes, he did not feel
my stares, as I watched in wonder 
and heard metal strike against stone like thunder.

People sneer, the man looks queer
I watch with mouth ajar 
I wonder if he lives near to here
or has he come from afar.
I want to know the story
the rusty bicycle told
on which he sits with glory
with back, like paper, fold.

I feel a tug, tis my mother
telling me to come along
I turn around, to catch another
glimpse of the source of the song.

What happened to the man I ask
the thought in my mind is filled
I will never know if he breathed his last
or is he sharpening still.


Raghav Mehta