The rail track crossing seems I have seen it elsewhere,
risen embankments people they cross and many appear,
dark face wrinkles, sweat on them, stooped on their shoulders,
with bicycles carrying gunny bag, and arrears,
I turn left, and soon the rail track disappears,
well I know still it goes to another city ahead,
so on a lonesome faster parallel track I tread.
To a destination that has nothing but hill and history,
they say it operates with help of tourism ministry,
A phenomenon that to me is a mystery,
villagers commuting next to my car flying free,
‘therwise nothing except landscape on the road to see,
the road looks lonely,
so I say to its unhearing village folkey,
Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.
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