When leaders without guts,
Were jaunting inside the oil-swilling sedans,
With national flags fluttering
With escorts, sirens and gleaming red lights.
One man: not an ordinary one indeed,
Was cyling.
Exhilaratingly peddling towards home in the twilight,
The recipient of the order of the golden ark;
A Fulbright Scholar,
Doctorate from the states;
Dedicating entire age-
To listen and heal the woes of Himalayas,
A legend was cycling.
When we had long queues to fill the EDV forms,
When we were dreaming about the boulevards and best cars,
When the politicos-peeking out of cozy suvs were annoying us; with blabbers on peace, clean energy and wonderful city.
When some were mouthing on change
He was cycling being a gust of change himself.
The gust of hope for the Himalayas could not reach his destination that day,
They say it was a hit by a truck.
Oh! If you ask me !?
It was not an accident,
He was killed by this system.
Which rewards the odds and evils,
And punishes the very best.
Now, there is graffiti of a bicycle
On the side-wall of the road,
Where the golden ark laureate;
Took his last breathe.
Dare to stare at that graffiti,
It will ask you,
“U can’t change, can you!?”
( I love this poem…) 
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
-Pablo Neruda
