The Wanderer

It was very dark 
where the train stopped.
A few passengers got down, nobody got in,
but in the faint light I saw somebody sitting or crouching
at a distance, his or her robe
fluttering violently in the wind that had 
picked up speed.

 As the wheels started rolling in'
a line of houses showed themselves 
in their own lights,
the grills on the outer walls visible
with a  comfy feeling about them.
I dreamt  myself in one of those houses,
living with a husband and two or three children,
a scene dipped with blissful domesticity.

I imagined and perceived it so odd
as I looked at the wall of darkness outside
and the two three lights visible and flickering
among the trees.

How can I be in that house,
in that tiny bit of world
when the whole sky, the coconut and palm,
the mysterious light above the dark corridor of
the earth beckoned me, when all the people 
who lived their small and big lives,
Sometimes lonely in the crowd,
and a crowd in their solitude fought, smiled and 
got involved and shrank away sometimes,
called me, 
to be a part of them.

How can I be at one place,
When I needed to stretch my hands and touch
the existence with my soul, to wander 
in aloneness and see the magnificence of
everything with my eyes wide open,
and pick up the gifts that were mine alone,
until another wanderer came along,
and picked up the muse
with solid and fearless, unwavering hands.