On a train to somewhere days beat their wings over the face of a superbly round sun like untracked Vs of birds at dawn Time ravishes and ravages everything: as black ink from the bottle is used to write the word Time, the color of a few strands of hair changes to grey, to white

These sleepy faces sitting in these bucket seats will be different next time as they emerge from the dark of distance into a changing sky in which one always hears a horizon note*, to changing paper headlines with their ceaseless burning cities

And the poet is left here hefting words as sparrows build nests season after season under the rafters of a witnessing sky

* The steady drone note, usually produced by a tanpura, heard in traditional Indian music is sometimes called the horizon note