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Metro On A Morning


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Steel Capsule
Like a bullet
In search of some heart,
some flesh to 
inflict a magnificent wound.

Carrying in its womb
Captives of the cubicles.
Tall, Grotesque buildings
Silent, watchful and unfeeling,
Like gestapos,
Unsmiling, glassy faces, 
Cold and Smooth, on which
Humanity cannot find feet
ever. 

We walk, fellow passengers,
Like prisoners of our chosen fate.
We don't look at one another
when we do, accidentally
we don't smile,
pretending to be 
the part of metallic enclosure
which holds us. 

The station,
a solemn, bored voice 
speaks at us,
like a curse thrown in our direction,
Phase III Metro Station,
and we take out our beings

A husband, a wife,
a father, a mother,
we take our being in our sweaty palms
sweat, threatening to melt away
the lines of destiny
ready to barter it 
for a number, a card
which is our identity.

Another day of 
captivity to our cubicles awaits,
A remorseless day,
explodes with rare reticence, 
no word, no voices,
keyboard clicks,
and the pawns and kings
Dance,
To the depressing 
rhythm of Drudgery.

Each king is a pawn 
and each Pawn a king
At one level
and Another.
The Nimble noises
of people talking on phone,
Assuring urgent arrivals
and urgent surrender of self,
The rumbling of train
splicing through the soul.

(c) Saket Suryesh, 2015

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