My solitude, my eyes, and my feet,
walk down a slippery path alone.
The remnants of hidden memories,
are pouring, like feelings unknown.
The wanderer, in me, is quiet,
but the seeker is always alive.
I wait endlessly, at the crossroads,
looking for the last bus at night.
Here it arrives, screeching loudly,
empty seats, resonate with my inside.
So many seats here could be filled.
Why not one soul, can this heart find?
I'm astonished by my patience.
Why do I wait for the last bus at night?
Am I subtle, or am I brittle? Do I exist?
Yearning for peace, in search of a fight.
The driver of the bus is very tired,
living a boring story of his own.
I can see in his eyes that emptiness,
he can control buses, but not unknown.
Life is foolish, the least I can say.
Why do good souls get the last bus?
Maybe their wait is long, fateful,
with love, pain and lost trust.
The day was long and tiresome.
I need to go home, like a bird.
The lonely roads are haunting,
but the last bus can't, quench this thirst.
I saw a soul like me, at the stop,
when I went close, it had my face.
How scary, how wonderful, why?
Such is this world, new heart, same face.
Alas, I persisted, with my naivety,
I thought this bus would now stop.
Well, life has different expectations,
what seems clean, has an old spot.
Those lights, shining from a distance,
and I remember my first love,
No connection, no link to the heart,
but a hope, lonely hope of a touch.
As the last bus approaches slowly,
the pounding is unexplainable.
I will reach home, in a real sense,
that my secret abode is available.
Why do we wait for the last bus?
Why do we wait for something better?
Are we lazy, or opportunist souls?
Can't this periphery, find some center.
Driver don't honk, the night is dead,
I felt the bus is my companion.
As I entered the bus, it embraced,
maybe this bus ride will be really fun.
Life goes on, and on, and on, and on.
So why wait for the last bus at night?
Why not take a taxi, Ola or Uber?
Maybe on the last bus, tears can hide.
An obscure bus, so unknown, so alone,
traveling through deserted routes.
This bus runs on fuel and hope,
with a feeling that, lovingly sprouts.
Somehow, life is also like this bus,
going through some charted roads.
Paths are known, but travelers are not,
interwined with fate and destiny's ropes.
The driver does rash driving, at times,
leaves few passengers stranded sometimes.
But on his last route, he is considerate,
because he knows the pain of lonely times.
Slowly, the last bus reaches the final stop,
and the driver is sleepy, hungry, but alive.
But he has no thirst, it's already quenched,
as his lone passion in life, is just to drive.