Boarding a night train,
to destinations varied,
our sleep – enclosed in the same sinuous form,
our journeys cross one-another,
Do also, our dreams?
When paths serpentine,
tangle and untangle,
parallel and criss-cross,
Do also, our dreams?
The guard dozes off
in his singular seat by the door,
hot wind whipping his face;
The baby in the first class AC
cries out of the heat.
Lulled
by the rhythmic shake of the coach,
a young girl dreams
the face of a young man.
Hers is behind the front engine
and his is the one at the back.
An old lady gets visions
that belong to a little boy.
The little boy in turn,
breathes death, hair-breadth close.
One long winding journey,
shared space, breath
and passing frames.
Thoughts escape –
through window cracks,
under bathroom doors,
whistling in the wind
along with the engine;
and one becomes another
and another’s becomes one’s own.
Wraith-like dreams
iridescent in the mind’s eye,
almost pungent –
passing away as the smells
of the bathroom, sweat, puke –
lifting its gossamer wings and
laughing, going out of place.
Probably a little trick of the three am-
nothing makes sense
and also everything does.
And like nomads
as man travels –
in the piercing silence of the night,
through the raucous music of the mornings,
with afternoons searing and bright
and twilights poignant and calm –
travelling alongside,
from one place to another,
dreams of many colours
each with a tricky tale to tell.
Pic : tomhe – http://www.flickr.com/photos/tomhe/
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