The Saint.

Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry

Fleeing from the scene
Like a murdering highwayman,
From the arms of all norms,
Fled and escaped like a highwayman.
He ran in the streets,
He ran on the roads,
He ran through the fields,
He ran like a madman on the roads.
He ran through the day,
And in the night, he ran too.
Frantic, disenchanted, anxious,
He ran in the rain, too.
Some branded him a lunatic, a heretic,
And some branded him a Saint.
He ran on oblivious, uncaring for the names.
He ran on, the madman, the oblivious Saint.
He searched for, they knew not what,
Yet honored all his wishes.
He ran on because, he too, knew not.
He ran on because he forgot.

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