Time and Life to Death

Filth, they call it ubiquitous; obnoxious,
on the streets, in heaps, in lanes, scattered.
Life goes daily, usually on,
oblivious of filth, or death, goes on
with ease. Unfettered feet, undaunted --
of pilgrims, of people, with purpose,
or strollers, the timeless lanes, narrow,
space ample for all who come,
who live and die there. Disgusting,
the filth, reflected sometimes, on faces.
Cow dung, house waste, refuse and grime,
scattered, removed, then scattered again,
repeat performance, seen and felt on skin,
in nose, on feet through eyes.
Yet feet go on, undaunted, eternally,
as time and life run to death,
from flesh to fire to ashes.