Bus Of Stories Poem by Mustafa Ghuneim

Frustrated from my roots,
I am wearing my black boots,
It is not snowing but the rain falls,
As I go beyond my doors;
I am waiting for a bus to come,
I am waiting all alone,
Then imagined how these goes,
The bus that goes in loops,
When the bus came along,
I stood up and walked to the entrance,
I felt the rain on my face, drops I never saw;
I felt frustrated even more,
When I went there,
When I saw all the faces looking at me,
Everyone had a story to tell,
Everyone had something or someone he lost,
As the door closes everyone lost his attention,
Everyone began to think of his own section,
The story everyone who is burst with tears,
Not because of fear, but because the incidences were so near;
The weather was cold, and the road seemed endless,
The bus was moving, lights are on and then off again,
The bus number I didn’t remember,
But the driver was sitting in humble,
I can't forget how the man looked like,
Again another driver and he as well have a story to tell…