Lined by the checkered footpath,
There is a glistening black street,
Which has witnessed everything but has nothing of its own.
It’s lights, now pale and dusty,
Somehow enlighten its face,
To help the diverse groups of commuters.
Once, a landmark of one of the most exotic Italian restaurant,
Now, devoid of a name,
it stands anonymous, aloof, empty.
Now the only allies remain are the
spring, the rains and the autumn.
Who shed their fallen leaves and raindrops,
Thus making it less empty.
When the lost pedestrians search their way along,
The old grocer, its old friend, living at the end of it,
Refers to it, smiling, by ‘that empty street’.