Journeys…

There is nothing else but miles of darkness

And the train runs non-chalantly

Like a serpentine river in the death of desert.

All aboard are asleep except a few

Who stare at the darkness through their windows

And watch their life stare back

In one long film of moving monotony.

Small stations pass by every now and then

With their kerosene lamps flickering

And glowing with the silent wind

Which at another time and space

Was a tornado – mighty and invincible.

The silence of the journey speaks

In loud echoes through epochs

This is what life is, this is what life is.

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