His rusty authentic voice carrying over the heavy noise, his words seeping effortlessly through the tightly compacted space on this Piccadilly line.
Foreign words, grow louder. A few travellers express their irritation with facial expressions, but he doesn’t even acknowledge their presence. He is so deep in his story telling, while his friend is transported back to a time they both miss. The story teller scratches his henna stained beard, while his eyes sparkle with happiness.
As the foreign words grew louder, I recognized them to be my own. I too then became entrapped in his story. And as they reminisce I can only imagine creating images of our motherland before the war.
Back to a time,
where greed didn’t fuel the government,
where compassion kept the flag waving high
and the national anthem rang in every street.
Slowly their voices vanished, and I’m transported back to reality. The doors of the train close and we begin to move.
A young aspiring poet, who has been writing poetry since the age of 16. She is currently working on launching an online e-magazine called 'Candid Rose' which aims to discuss taboo topics within our community.