the muted chimney

she stands with
what pride
she can muster
done her bit
for the city
her horn rang true
and clear
calling people to gather
for a honest days labour
and then as
the shadows lengthened
she would bid them
au revoir
with a wail
they would meet
next day
neither had much choice

now, the last of the mohicans
in a manner of speaking
no one remembers
the mill
that she stood watch over
now removed
from the face of the city
in a rush
after the great strike
actually
after the world changed
spinning more rapidly
than the spindles
it housed
pushed aside by time

most times
she looks forlorn
missing her mates
she loved being part
of the great orchestra
which came alive
at 9
and
at 5
people would set
their clocks to her
back then
muted is not how
she likes to be
but then she is invisible
to the hordes
who have stopped looking up

she smiles
a weary smile
as she watches
breathless influencers
peddle the villas
in her sky
they scream
you have arrived
this has to be your dream
she knows better
she has seen it all
like Cohen’s dove
dreams; bought, sold and bought again
no one is really free

Photographs by the uber and multi talented Avinash Usha Vasant.