on a train that is stationed
for years, the empty coaches
murmur like the wind,

warm as a dead tree’s dream,
feeding off of the sun
in the glory of a strange-summer-day.

when the light is at its peak,
the ghosts talk amongst
themselves, in tongues,
unfamiliar, as those who
live are too aloof to know

or hear
the call of history.

unrewarded — it would
consume us all.

© Anmol Arora

Day 15
(Inter)National Poetry Month