Poetry at Sangam




For Irwin Allan Sealy

A train of thoughts
screeches past cities.
Crowded hearts, dreams,
lost compasses, drum beats,
smoke-lined eyes from skies
aboard a wagon, a grey

winding its way through greyed
pathways. Linger on thoughts
of clouds slipping off a sky.
Nightmares climb in from a city
seething amidst heartbeats.
Unwieldy passengers who dream

of homelands – dreamless,
dazed by fields that grey.
But to unheard beats,
moves the train, tunnels into thought
hiding under cities
safe from skies.

Carrying a skyful
of memories, sleeps in a dreamer’s
eye, wakes up in his city’s
embrace warm and woollen grey,
far from thoughts
limp under rain which beat

down windows of time. A beat
sends the travelling chorus skyward;
so proceeds the cortege – once thought
of as discovery of dreams.
But all that lies above is the grey
dust of former homes and forgotten cities.

Yet unmindful of spectres, our city’s
gypsy carriage rattles along, beat.
Halts beckon, signboards invite. Greys
on to collide with sabre skies,
those swords of nature. Dreaming
tribes hop off the thought-train.

Journey ends, cities
come alive in the thoughts that beat
upon skies – rest in every man’s dreams.