​The Future Of The Land Is Not In My Hands

Painted in Himalayan innocence the path to glory faded in a frenzy 

Of repetitions and subservience.
In a semi conscious morning I missed the train,
Numb from the blinding capitalist sunshine I fell asleep on a platform bench.
In my dream I was on that train with a bearded man talking about the history of all mankind. And
A piece of land
A fishery
A literary critic
A gun
Some explosives.
I would have believed in him had he not been thrown out
By A woman that looked like a frog,
Ah, Dolores Umbridge! (I fucking hate you!)
I was going for her neck
When,
Somewhere in Geneva or Paris some people were discussing about the planet's disease,
And I woke up to the blaring radio.
When I was wondering what to do with the fatal disease that ails us all
The kid selling peanuts laughed at me.
The train's butt was still visible in the distance,
I could either tell the kid that he is being wronged,
Or..
But the station master came and told me,
"That train is your only hope, son"
In the horizon it was beginning to disappear.
I put my shoes on,
Before taking up the file where slept safe my CV
Looked at the kid and said, "Think"
And ran.