The restless gaze, hearts full of pressure

still hurrying down in the station,

You can't measure the journey of ruin

curfews, now everyday there's a cabin

booked for leaving the crowded life.

The odour of wet grass, the transparent

dews are pearls in the grassland,

"What are you leaving?"

Asked the gentleman, the birds tweet

for a farewell, "don't bother to take the baggage."

So they hopped from branch to branch,

the old baggage left in the past,

The earth, furrowing over rocky trees:

"What you're taking in the next station—

. . . isn't the currency of life," she completes.

And the river falls as a cascade dream,

The train, passing barely over the bridge

passing another spell, leaving another weight.

But cotton weights the same as ball

without air pressure, so she holds

pale sorrow in a vacuum cleaner.

The snow petals are still white,

she lies for the sweet red sky,

with each passing station,

she sees how life & death come closer

faster, with passing years.

— 30th June, 2024.