समाचार
The weathered stones are filled with cold disdain,
No longer wishing to direct the stray,
Or mark how near the goals of toil and pain,
They loathe to point the traveler on his way.
For those who guide now face a bitter fate
A future forged in grief and deep neglect.
They crave the finish line to stand elate,
Not root in dust,where passing souls reject.
The wind and hail they bear with silent pride,
While travelers take the fruit and leave the bone,
No gratitude is offered to the guide,
For grace is claimed by metal tools alone.
The GPS now wears a mocking grin,
As ancient signs dissolve where paths begin.
Anil Kumar Mishra, Ranchi, India
