A folded morning slips in under the door. The headlines erupt. Accidents of lines. Dark alphabets of horror. Blasting prints. You can even hear screams in between lines or bear the edited gush of riotous words. The becomes a newspaper page with mishaps, corrupting voice, bold caricatures of distinguished men, violence and defeat.

Dates pile up in kilos and under the tip you’re your
nose the world at strife
moves on and on.

Twentieth century of institutions and perverted motivations. Masquerades of metropolis leading an aimless march. A voiceless cry. You fold your times only to take a breath and move about with an absurd determined air in an uncertain age.

One can only be sure of an uncertain faded point from where trains come and go. The platform turns into a stage of human longing, shuffling and destinations.

Thousand eyes wait.

One line slides over the other. Eyes follow iron rails until the dot blurs in the thin of the sky.

Travelers come and go. People meet and depart :
squeezed passengers, beggars, coolies, news hawkers, tea stalls and littered tracks make up the scene.

Thousands stare along the metallic edge.

the burning
of the wound
still flames

within you

pain flowers
as you awake
and open your
eyes

to the world before you
 

a birth
for the womb

if injustice
the world then

in his pocket
a postcard size

there has to be
a cause
or the heroine

there has to be
a means
serving an end

or else
let him alone

with a song
of despair

the raga of life
out of tune
 

a curtain
opens gradually

lighting
the world of differences

best convictions clang
mighty heads wonder

an intermission
of meaningless talk
of this and that

you make
compromises

here and there
acknowledge failure

with comic sense
in tragedy