A Dream on the Train

Not a dream, exactly--more like pictures. You see, it doesn't always speak. This time, I got images--which, for me, is all they can be. Words are easier.
 
A hand, reaching out to drop a pomegranate into a child's hands. Cut to bloody hands, with pomegranate seeds stuck to them, clinging to the drying blood.
 
A smell, like mother--not my mother, but maternal. Warm, soft arms surround, and I can see the light blond hairs glowing gold in the light of the sunset. We have escaped the rain that came on after meditation.
 
Grass between tiny, dirty toes.
 
Setting sun, night passes at a gallop.
 
Rising sun, and smoke--something in the distance, belching it into the sky, where it never quite seems to fade.....