Years had passed by, he met none.
Traveled around the world, he saw none.
Seasons brought many such commotion and made him strong.
He but lived through and learned with perfection.
He could sit, walk, talk and breath,
could satisfy and sleep, without anyone.
His room, had the history,
of no worldly pain or any of human relations.
He kept no flowers, pictures or memorabilia.
Had no curtains, calenders or clocks to remind, the existence.
He 78, had perfected the ignorance.
He, the loneliest lived in the city, of density and chaos.
One such morning, a book dropped by.
He kept it aside and lived without a page turned.
Years and years passed by, untouched; the book fell apart.
Its yellow pages, flew and spread across.
Overlooking the city, he stood with the assembled pages.
He cried in agony; in realization of years, ignored by.
The following afternoon, the crowd stood.
He lay on the ground, dead; down many windows.
Nobody knew; he who had died.
His room; as vacant for ages; pale and odorless.
One among, held those assembled pages.
It read, ' Poems by Pablo Neruda'.
