Smoking cold

In the browning of light and the turning grey skies,

the temperatures are dropping, to as near as ice.

The houses leave a character of our own to display,

for a person who is new to all this way.

The smoke is filling the skies and time changes with platforms,

but I was waiting blank in vintage, thinking to which I belong.

The sweet which fills the air so cold

making it temper in flavors’ of smoke.

I buy two teas and take them once

and my palms now feel burned with sun.

Giving one to a boy of nine, the tea in clay, 

I saw him clench his fist in cold

and hunger so profound to have ate his sound.

There’s more to this country with millions to stare, 

some be with a lot and some not even to care.

Twenty second year of millennium and my train is to come,

for the first of its kind from the Capital to home. 

Smoking it will come and get past the snow to join this place to Kashmir in snow, 

in ducts and on bridges it will sail along to make new way into markets of Lahore, 

the train is also new and new is our word for just to bridge gaps, making a new past.