Traffic Light
Yellow is the boundary of the stride,
A paper-thin cleft between the end and the beginning.
Time catches its breath within that tiny seam,
And we weigh our choices once again—
“Shall I press on, or shall I stay?”
The moment my foot takes the green light,
A palanquin charges forward, compressing time itself in its speed.
“How dare you! Make way for the Magistrate!”
That glare is no simple threat.
Our hesitation is a quiet ritual, testing both choice and chance.
Green is the opening of a promise.
Yet within that promise seeps a hidden gaze and a silent rule.
We read it, judge it, and take our step.
Can we truly step forward, trusting this green hue alone?
As swift palanquins rush by without end,
Our judgment is constantly put on trial.
A traffic light is never merely a set of colors.
It is the invisible shadow of order,
The ultimate symbol of the norms we belong to.
And the traffic light asks:
“Do you truly trust me?”
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