Image by Zashnain Zainal. CC-BY-SA

​Strange it is how strangers meet
On lonesome lines and pages
Unarranged on crowded streets
In hope and hate and rages.

No rain in this weary cold
Only this wounded living
Trains go by and we grow old
Forgetting, almost reaching.

And the then and now, and now
And then, always often stings
Absent words, memory rows
Songs we never ever sing.

​​And that’s how we come and leave
To cull stories we may weave.