We have no balance left to read
Poems into the train’s deep night
We made own towards a hill God.
So we go on in a brown pen note
With calligraphy as in a forehead.
Train would oblige not to tremble
Like Nepal under a falling debris.
Our forehead obliges with script
But it does not know its balance
Calligraphy is fine, not scrutable
God in boulder smiles knowingly
We will check with Him up there.