It’s 4 am, the small hours of the morning,
The coffee shop wears a desolate look,
The travelers with their scanty luggage are few,
Trying to live, sleep and dream in the nooks.
Poor souls you may think,
Who cannot smell the coffee beans,
Do not care about the front page news,
Disheveled hair, weary eyes, waiting to be amused.
It could have been a graveyard,
With the vultures of steel awaiting their prey,
Except this one has living souls, thin and lean,
Who look desperate, tired, weak and in between.
In between the jingle, hustle and bustle, the cry of a new born,
And the silence left by the departed, the sorrow of the forlorn
In between the giggles of the toddlers, the copious smiles,
And the havens of hope across thousands of miles.
Never steady, they keep moving from one world to another,
Dreaming constantly, pushing the terrestrial limits,
Experiencing extremes in a matter of zones and hours,
To the onlooker, they don a look, tired, untidy and full of scars
A vagabond, someone may call them,
Riding their vultures of steels they hop from one to the other,
The worlds they possess, the memories they’ve strewn, the people they own,
The Terminals, where you can catch them, are their temporary homes.
My coffee is over, not my pondering,
Thinking about them, the travelers, the vagabonds,
With a sense of pity, respect, sorrow and glee,
I look at myself in a mirror, and the pitiful gazes falling on me.
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