The Mother Land

Through the windows, the landscape passes,
like wind through my hair,
the train passes through dawn,
A crisp light in the air,
passengers fumble for blankets, toothbrushes,
a hand to grasp
Curtains drawn
a yawn
a supplication to God
Voices, foreign
the land stops,
the cold morning air
And me, in my Truworths black pants
and boots
jersey from Identity
(the irony).
Them wrapped in their material
and moustaches
and beards
and saris
Hot chai wrapped in their hands as they squat on the floor in the dust
I stand away from the walls, lest some germs
climb into my nostrils and settle in my brain
I try. I try. I try.
I am a foreigner,
Beside the paint on my skin
everything betrays me
Except perhaps, my eyes,
a longing them, caught


Posted in India, Poetry, Train, Travel.

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