Promises

These city roads on which I glide today

whisper in my ears a promise

to remain the way they are.

Ten years from today, shall they be decked

in the carelessness of love

that they are clothed in today?

The full bright moon bathes

the dirt-coated blades of the coconut tree

that sits in its uninterrupted, continuous existence,

just like that grandpa in the balcony,

sitting, rocking on his armchair.

The bridge runs over my head

but the barriers that line the roads

with signs begging for people's patience

are now draped,

with rows of tuni bulbs, that illuminate

the rusting metal underneath the peeling blue paint.

And the navy waters under the

purple, benevolent sky

hum that tune now too familiar

(endearing?) to my ears.