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The sky is veiled in folds of shadowed thread,
And night wears garlands plucked from dusky flame.
Yet gentle winds around my spirit spread
The scent of fate, as if it knew my name.
Upon this chariot of iron and sound,
I lie embraced, half-waking and half-blind.
The train, like some old lover newly found,
Moves through the dark with Mumbai in its mind.
Its pulse aligns with mine — a fated beat,
Through blackness where no stars nor voices gleam.
It carries me, not merely on my seat,
But through the night into a waking dream.
This journey isn't drawn on maps or charts—
It moves instead through longing, time and hearts. |
