Postcards

Halfway down your journey,
you relapse

from the black leather upholstery
of your black taxi

into tranquility
of that city or wait, it was a town

you read about in that poem,
in that book.

Its like the last step, on a flight
of stairs, which isn't there.

With eyes open, under scorching Sun,
you see coconut trees dripping from the rain.

If only ,there were postcards, without cities
on them, letters without senders-

just things written, answered,
then posted again to someone unknown.

What's the mountain to a river?
It can't express love, like the river

Its stern, grumpily guarding the river,
writing postcards to her, from ages.