With tremor the engine stopped,
At a station rattling with sounds,
I caught myself looking at,
A drawing flirting with societal bounds.
Full of colours, bright and strong,
The lines crossed in a rebellious tone,
Difficult it was to comprehend,
The beautiful ballad it sang alone.
To make this art, the being who toiled,
Of her, there is nothing that I know,
She might be alive or buried underneath,
Sleeping still as the time flows.
My memory started to fade,
As the carriage jerked and slowly onset,
We all leave a mark on the world,
Some of them are just easy to forget.