The streetlamp has died.
Died of what?
Of old age?
Of boredom?
Or of love?
Nobody knows.
The streetlamp has died.
The bugging insects have fled
That sucked the essence of light
From the generous streetlamp
Like prodigal sons of a millionaire.
Perhaps the lamp
Died of insignificance.
Guiding drunkards and stray dogs
Both urinating underneath.
There was no mourning
As there was no soul.
While dying...
The streetlamp might have remembered
The day it was hoisted
On the top of the world.
How proud she was!
Losing all its glory
Burying its pride in darkness
The filament hanging out of shame
The streetlamp has died.
