Source: Jesse Schoff on Unsplash

At the crack of dawn as a train roared by, he struggled to sit up on the platform.
Frail and grimy, a young man in a heart-rending form.

By his side a dog, his companion of a few months, vigorously wagged its tail.
Its bond very strong with the man of an unbearable tale.

Daily he read a philosophical book in response to his inner cries.
Often he looked at photos of his dear and dead ones with misty eyes.

He got his measly meals from clearing some platform litter.
From sharing it equally with the dog his life tasted better.

Affectionately everyday he stroked the dog many times on its back for long.
His life was derailed but his loving self was ever strong.

Stoned by someone, one afternoon the dog came to him with a leg bleeding.
To know how life can be so cruel his eyes were for long intensely pleading.

One cold night the dog brought a discarded blanket for the sickly man whose state had turned more grim.
The man and dog were about misery and love filled to the brim.

It was heart-warmingly clear that to each the other mattered more.
A real relationship of love is about this quality being at the core.

People moved all around him, none feeling his pain.
They moved much like the insentient train.

A very sunny day dawned.
A deeply disturbing scene it spawned.

The man lay motionless with eyes wide open like his heart.
In this cryptic world he had finished playing his poignant part.

The dog frantically circled him, kept howling and tapping his chest.
For the man the day had come which was his best.

Some goodbyes on the platform are unfortunately final.
For the man such goodbyes many years back made his life too penal.

Crushed by grief the dog's life soon came to an end.
It was expected as in the thorny path of its life the man was the divine bend.

The platform will continue its journey cherishing the two beings the most.
It was a privilege indeed for it to have been their host.

The book, now fully read, was the man's companion of might.
The pen that served as the bookmark now has a story it is itching to write.

.    .    .