A BETTER FIT
That train, with its black and charcoal tower,
moves through the air with smoke and power.
It pushes things around as it slices through
this world. Huddled all atop it, and all along
its sides, those crying hordes of Calcutta
and Delhi, the hunched and broken forms
of distant lands : they stay in place, wailing,
as they are dragged through this swirl in
time. I watch from a platform at that which
I cannot partake. Squeamish, I blanch at the
image. My token time, this iron before wheels,
is made - by contrast - of skyscrapers and
grime, of window glass and riches and
returns; great bevies of money and tables
set with crystal and gold. That contrast
is striking (truth to be told), and I can
only shudder as I walk away. The clinging
men, I watch them in their robes and
colored silks. Their mouths, in a grimace,
say something, but I cannot the language,
ascertain, and my silence is a better fit.
That train, with its black and charcoal tower,
moves through the air with smoke and power.
It pushes things around as it slices through
this world. Huddled all atop it, and all along
its sides, those crying hordes of Calcutta
and Delhi, the hunched and broken forms
of distant lands : they stay in place, wailing,
as they are dragged through this swirl in
time. I watch from a platform at that which
I cannot partake. Squeamish, I blanch at the
image. My token time, this iron before wheels,
is made - by contrast - of skyscrapers and
grime, of window glass and riches and
returns; great bevies of money and tables
set with crystal and gold. That contrast
is striking (truth to be told), and I can
only shudder as I walk away. The clinging
men, I watch them in their robes and
colored silks. Their mouths, in a grimace,
say something, but I cannot the language,
ascertain, and my silence is a better fit.
No comments:
Post a Comment