To A River

 

time

to escape, travel

to escape time

in a train, strange

timeless rage

escapes every break

side lower berth

lonesome traveller, is

Kerouac page to page

old thick spectacled grandmother

pleads for a coin or two, she craves

the young boys gaze, so brave

to be alone already, so much unfazed

across hinterlands, across plains

onwards to a river, the river serene

without any sun’s rays, crystal and pristine

 

the river, a metaphor for our escape

those from dry lands

thirsty for some praise

so that when it begins to rain

it signals the setting of a dream stage

swimming in drowning paddy fields

on impulse, waving past station after station, wet

snack after snack, passengers ever dyingly hungry for

every talk that must be ever talked

for which every journey but this is short

 

who is the lonesome traveller

why is he travelling with no purpose no soul

silent, numb, without words to utter

unlike the blind man selling soaps who stutters

lonesome traveller observers intently empty space

hanging by the gate, puffing cigarettes away

what if he jumps as his mind is astray

 

eye him, tie him, cold stern long gaze, unfold

fury foretold, words he scribbles in his diary untold