The wide roads seemed could adjust more,
some speeding to hell, some driving home.
Most speeding lights knew no rules,
even speeding on curves, puking dirty fumes.
I remember the words that my mother said,
and so at times I get late to avoid being Mr. Late.
I know there's someone at home, for me who waits,
she gets her sleep of peace, only if I am safe.
Every morning when I rush to get the keys,
she stands by the gate, asks me to ride slow,
with an worried face, the bye-bye she waves.
One evening, things didn't remain similar,
a drunk man on the lorry, missed the sight of this petty rider,
little late he pushed the brakes,
I kissed the streets and laid helpless.
I painted a part of the streets red,
on the footpaths I was made to rest,
a few seconds that I still don't remember,
I felt good to be alive, not for me, but for my mother.
I returned home, leaning on my friends shoulder,
what hurt me more, was my mothers tear.
