Sunday, March 30, 2014


This poem first appeared here in the March 2014 issue of the Online magazine THE BROWSING CORNER.

The night seemed to be
absolutely quiet

as if mourning the loss

which human hearts

were too small to comprehend


the train cutting through

the dark fields

smelled of fear and

brewing hatred


the brakes halted the train

and stopped the heartbeats

under bundles of rags

he huddled under a berth

as his older brother

covered his mouth


the hot crimson drops

drip on his forehead

all night

every night

for 67 years


a childhood


on a train

from Pakistan !

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To Kill a Mockingbird
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One Hundred Years of Solitude
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