a pilgrimage before slog...

'why this ride
every morn?'
she once him asked...
when
both of them
under the sun basked...
and the window opened
straight to a city...
still carried gold...
sans dust...
still had smell flowery...

it was morning still...
and so the air had that feel...

he stopped sipping tea...
he looked up to see...
her...
her eyes...
'troubled are you? by me?'
he asked...
still they under the gold basked...
so there was still love...
and hope...
and faith...

'heard St.James?
Dear?
and le pelerinage?'

he asked...
concerned...
about her...
about only her...

she nodded...
like a child...
coming to terms
every day
of their stay...

she remembered
the ways...
the routes...
the paths...

'but if i fail?
if i fail to follow
your run?
if i fail...?'

she asked...
worried...
a bit tensed...
beads appearing on her forehead...
making her all the more beautiful...
drenched by the new born gold...
as if painted that...
a child...
a babe...
wondering...

he came near
her...
took her hands in his...
planting a kiss...
and murmured...

'if failure comes...
success comes nearer too...
if you fail...
am i not here?
dear?
and if i fail...
you are there...
are you not?'

she smiled...
the city was waking up...
a blessed day yawned off indolence...
a milkman arrived at the gate...
the newspaper boy flung bytes of news...
the buses started plying...
the city woke up to work...
a slog had already begun...

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