Between two stations
there's the endless track
that coils and diverges
into many possibilities
and the cities and hamlets
that appear unannounced
dusty, neglected with
traces of toil in paddy fields
and people who sit in the sun
with clay tea cups
watching the horizon unfold
with the same old monotony.
I count the pebbles on the track
that move away into nothingness
I mourn the loss of the traces
of the paths I traversed
from the cabin window
sitting here alone
in the stillness of perpetual motion,
in search of other homes.
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