I am a lifetime behind myself
waiting for a train I missed long ago.
Day and night on a candle wick
burns my life in this dark room.
The octaves I heard once upon a time
fell dead as I dusted Gitanjali yesterday.
Clock as jailer in barracks
hung seriously in my room.
As a forbidden tune,
I sit on the bench of railway station
with neither a passenger ticket
nor some money to corrupt
waiting for the train I missed long ago.

A poet from India.

Last updated November 12, 2011