It is one of the streets.
The road is moving upwards from this point.
Not a lot of people can be seen.
A cycle is parked nearby.
On one of the platforms made on a grey wall,
A withered, brown rose is lying
Facing towards the other wall
But is showing off its worn off silver shine.
It is not as withered after all
When it has not lost its charm
Even after its great and dynamic fall
Nor can one see it squirm.
These roads are not of India, I know
And if it is London,
I cannot say for sure
But it is surely in one of the streets of England.
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