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!
