Two shadows glide,
where silence breathes—
a hush of wheels,
on glassy streets.
The sky bends low,
to watch them pass,
its greys like prayers
in folded light.
No haste, no horns,
no need to speak,
just breath and time
in slow duet.
They carry dreams
that others left,
and journeys souls
cannot forget.
Perhaps the road
remembers all—
the ones who pulled,
the ones who rode.
Both pilgrims in
this fleeting world,
two rickshaws on
a silver ode.
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