The ants on my wall
Form a long procession from opposite sides,
Meeting and greeting each other,
Maybe a warm hug, maybe a kind word,
Then cross each others’ path
And are on their way.
My grandmother, if alive,
Would have hoped people migrated like that,
To their Pakistans
To their Hindustans.
The Railway Station
You see, my home for the last fifteen years,
Has been near a railway station.
Every night, the last goods train leaves at 12:35,
Carrying off the night inside its coaches.
The tracks, spat, pissed and trampled upon throughout the day,
At night, breathes like a patient on life support.
I hear the whistle assault the air
Between two stations,
The clock tells time,
In bits and pieces.
The darkness gathers in small tobacco pouches,
I see the moon running after the train.
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