The Window’s Passing Frame

puncakbukit (78)in #photography • 16 hours ago

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_{(Effect by DeepArtEffects)}

The glass is cool against my brow,
A blur of emerald, grey, and jade;
The world is rushing past me now,
In lines the ancient farmers made.
The patchwork fields of flooded earth
Are stitched with paths of silver clay,
The quiet soil that gave us birth
Is where my heavy heart would stay.

　I see a ghost upon that track,
　A child who ran without a care,
　Who never thought of looking back
　Or breathing such a weighted air.
　The sky is hung with silver fleece,
　A ceiling made of mist and rain,
　That brings a strange and hollow peace
　To one who watches from the train.

How many seasons have gone by
Since I first learned the rhythm here?
Underneath this muted sky,
The distance makes the memory clear.
The engine hums a low refrain
Of all the things we leave behind—
The scent of mud, the falling rain,
The quiet corners of the mind.

　The frame moves on, the colors fade,
　The paddies vanish in the gloom,
　Like every promise that we made
　Within some half-forgotten room.
　But though the speed may pull me far
　Across the miles of green and gold,
　I know exactly where we are:
　In stories that are never told.

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