The Bus

the bus

The clinking metal bars
The half-shut windows tapping
under the nightly stars
The soft rustle of the breeze
The cold unpadded row of seats
The whiff of smoke with a little chill
The engine puffing up the hill
The odd screeches of the tyres
The unsteady red lights flickering like fires
The blue ceiling moving like an ocean
Beneath footprints
paint the floor’s portion
The old sound system has
fallen asleep above in a corner
The bus fills with
dreaming eyes and whispering murmur.

-Arun Bahadur Gurung

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