Anam Mughal
Dec 21, 20252 min read
The Traveler’s Ghost
She holds the ticket stub, she scrolls the phone, But in this quiet room, she is alone. Did she really stand beneath the Iron Lady’s glow? Or was she just a lantern in a shadow show? The sparkling lights of Paris, the city’s golden beam, Now feel like static flickering inside her fever dream. She rode the trains through fields of foreign green, A solo wanderer in a moving scene. She walked the Brussels streets amidst the crowd, Where voices spoke in tongues both soft and loud
.png)























