The world becomes a painting, rushing past,
A memory that wasn't meant to last.
A field of green, a child who stops to wave,
A story that the passing moment gave.
The chai-wallah's song, a rhythm on the track,
A life you see you'll never get back.
A woman drapes her sari on the line,
A fleeting, beautiful, and perfect sign.
You are a stranger, looking from your seat,
At someone else's bitter, someone's sweet.
And in this movement, you begin to feel,
How wonderfully, terribly, and real,
This life can be, in pictures small and fast,
The present disappears into the past.
Each window is a chance to say goodbye,
To a small life beneath a giant sky.
Poet's Note
There's a special kind of magic and melancholy to a train journey. The window frames life into these brief, beautiful stories that you can see but never be a part of. This poem is about that bittersweet feeling of being a passing observer. It's a reflection on the fleeting nature of the present moment and a gentle reminder of how life is a constant series of hellos and quiet goodbyes to people and places we'll never know.