Neruda would have been at loss for words,
If he saw what I saw today, if he felt what I felt,today,
Travelling as I was on the Subway.

Am I a Socialist? A Democrat? A Bureaucrat?
A Jew, an Atheist, or a forgotten Hindu?
Reborn, because moksha is for saints?

I don't know what my soul is like, is it blue?
Or is it like a raindrop meandering on a windowpane,
Too embroiled in its grief to care about disappearing,
All the while looking like a tear on the cheek of the Sky.

I doubt Neruda could come up with words for the sight
Of blood and torn skin on the subway tracks,
The organic leftover of a poor ******,
Lost to Time.

I have no words, either, my mouth is shut
In the silence of death, because as I stepped over the threshold
And found peace, I found that I had lost my voice.