The Mirrors

In another train,

not so long back,

I never had the need

to turn and watch the

shaky mirrors behind,

which hid my virtual image

beneath the many faces

commuting to work,

to play, to love.

Then, I could only look ahead,

or to the left,

through the iron bars,

and watch the stallion,

with me on its saddle,

gallop alongside the

diesel-powered coaches,

beside the endocrine-driven

life and its dreams;

jumping over small brooks,

crossing meadows, little fences,

and concrete roads;

trails I never took in my life;

the lanes,

now forgotten...

See, now I travel

many a metres

under the precise,

geometrically symmetric

maxims of a teacher

in pristine white coat,

in a lab where

muscle fibres are,

first torn apart,

then stitched back,

to make Kevlar out of

human flesh...

I am forced to look back now,

onto the mirrors

behind me,

they shudder in fear,

are rickety in dread,

for my eyes are cold,

angry, in fire...

As I can’t heal my world,

nor can I stop

them all from dying,

nor can I stop the livingfrom crying!