Saturday, March 29, 2008


I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly
— Tennyson

And, I do not have my destination.
The end of this journey.
But travel I must,
Cannot stop.

Why fear then? Hop onto a train
Its iron embrace will feed you with speed
And go away wherever you like.

That city near the seashore,
You’ll count the surf, and pass through them.
For a moment you will notice the
succulent bosoms of a young virgin
You cannot touch her. That hutment
in the middle of the field
Is not for you.
Not for you are the yellow of those mustard flowers.
That crooked hole on the shisham tree.
Not for you are the sleep of a static night.
Warmth of someone’s hair.
Friends contagious laughter
Not for you are those that are static

I travel on, through time
And through everything else
For which I wanted to stop.
I travel on.

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