as i traced thorugh the
ashen pale pages
of a book i chanced upon,
second hand probably
smelling the fragrance
of each page, the old book fragrence that i loved so deeply
something falls out of the pages,
a half torn train ticket perhaps
a train set for south france.
And as i stand there in the market
place with the book in my hand
my mind wanders to those land,
to the person who might have set out for this journey.
getting into the train with this book in his hand,
and as he sat in the train reading the book, with a mesmarising window view
he might have wanted to look out and experience the beauty.
unable to find a bookmark, kept a part of his ticket in it.
somehow through a long journey
which i could only imagine
the book reached here,
with the half torn train ticket
