A black line cutting the face of earth, stretching from nowhere to nowhere, and a comet runs.

The comet does not look left or right, or jump into the sprawling acres of greenness that surround him. He runs, faster than you or I ever can. And that defines his existence.

And up above him there are millions of stars, that dazzles you and me, with their vastness. The lonesome moon in the soothing zephyr, the inky sky that humbles all, but no, not him. He doesn’t even bother to look up. He runs.

And then those thorny acacias, those sedentary banyans, those restless eucalypti, those sprightly pines, they flutter as the atom passes, and bow down. The tar burns. The stars twinkle.

And the passers-by hardly notice, the sheep bleat, the traffic-lights turn red, and the blue men and the white men and the pink men go to work, the women whine, and the babies die. The creaking wheels turn, the horns blare, the trumpets clarion, the clock chimes, the leaves fall.

But no one sees the comet moving…

The comet doesn’t know, he keeps running, just like the zillions before him had done!