In midst of cruel traffic signs,
I thank a few among their designs,
Merciless they ever so are,
Yet few so kind have been so far,
Many obliged our journey needlessly pause,
Few let us through during this last hour that was.

Rows of trees, bridges and light posts disappear fast,
For all, like Kenyan marathon runners, sprint past.
Such discipline on show, they seek little incident, no fuss,
So much so, none an acquaintance made from inside this bus.

Music of rubber tracing through unending road,
Far better is a companion than noisy beat in loop mode.
This radio beat so painfully mundane,
Hardly is it impressive instrumentation.
The rubber so humble, seeks no fame;
Ever so quietly assures our arrival at destination.

Feels like traveling through a crayon sketch;
Who ever drew it is such a lazy kid.
It appears, his color box, he did not fetch,
Hard otherwise to explain why he did what he did.

He forgot his greens on trees,
His yellows from light posts,
Even blue to his skies,
“Come back in a couple of months”, he sighs.

These tall trees must be siblings, I wonder,
Or may be patrons at the same salon.
They look alike, no matter hale or thunder,
The feeling perhaps mutual as, toward Krakow, we drive on.


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