when dawn comes


The night train chugs dreamily into a green morning
making its way over little bridges
sleeping over backwaters
that have seeped into villages
The old man in his blue, plastic chair
with a newspaper, the stamp of a reading state
on the verandha of a house flying past
His daughter washing the blackened pots
in the little pond behind the grove of tall, silent palms
that reach to touch the silvery wisps of dawn
All is dewy, all is green
as the tender morning sun dries the night rain
but cares not about the inner drizzle
in a land silent with unsaid thoughts
where love is the language that arrack speaks
and beauty languishes somewhere
between snores and wet dreams

©Reena Prasad

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