On the side street people sleep on cots
Not to admire the moon but rest backs.
Buffaloes stand there with vacant eyes
Their udders now full with reluctant milk.
The old man is groaning in his blanket.
He is still sticking to his point, his times.
The train is yelling at men on the tracks
Its flanks bursting with hanging people.
The train sticks to its point , they to it.
It is much fun to ramble, when all others
And all other things stick to their points
That way you are sticking to your point.


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