You see the train fires our thoughts-
We find a white metallic sky up there,
As though the train itself were the earth
Spinning like a top in cosmic space.
The train’s hoot pierces our awareness.
We then come down from the upper berth
To mundane matters of trivial concern-
Thoughts which are not train thoughts
But home kitchen and patio thoughts
Waiting for inquisitive neighbours to talk
So that we could pick large comic holes.
In the train, between our finiteness and sky
There is another white sky, train sky
Under which several celestial thoughts
Take place in our upturned sleeping faces
It is as though the metal sky does not exist
And we are faced with the Big sky itself.
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