Athisiyam!”, says a tired voice
Breaking the morbid silence
Of the sleepy small town rail station.
A lone figure, in an old, dirty
Perhaps hand-me-down sweater,
Moves slowly down the platform.
Shattering the immobility
Of the queer, unmoving station.
His movement reflects burden
Of mind and of body.
His grey hair and shrill voice fading,
With each step forward.
“Athisiyam”, he shouts,
Not proclaiming a wonder
But as I realised later, in search.
For the son who abandoned?
For the wife he betrayed?
For the daughter he never had?
One couldn’t be sure.
Upon him was the worst of curses,
The bane of mankind – mortality.
But worse still was another,
The curse of loneliness.
Walking off to oblivion, I watched him
His frail silhouette – a void in space,
Finally vanished in winter fog
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