Back again almost in the crowd,
faces rapidly fleeting like ghosts.
Their looks nevertheless so proud,
in a strange city play like hosts.
Trams, cars and buses daily ply,
on the roads heated in the sun.
While far above the iron birds fly,
and behind the clouds we see none.
'Trrp', 'Trrp', echoes of falling rain,
musically on the tin window shed.
In grief, many tears flowed in vain,
while I sat on a white linen bed.
Prasenjit©1997-2012
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