A rocking cradle

Slow chugging of a train,
A drowsy afternoon with arid air,
Broken walls, children, garbage pool,
Trees with limbs chopped off,
a barren field where kids weave a cricket story.

A temple with a saffron flag turned into a brownish red, 

like decomposed blood left to rust,
dozing off in the regularity of pungent sights of squalor, 

you drift.

A sudden thud of roaring engine breaks the reverie,
green replenished lands fill colour to the window, 

two electrical wires follow you through out, 

narrowing but never meeting.

A boy runs to take a quick single,
a train zooms past the frame, 

hawkers sell tea and samosa, 

a man cycles alone in a newly-laid piece of land, 

some buffaloes graze under the balmy sun near a small pond, 

we zoom past a crossing,

motorcyclists, passerbys, rickshaws wait for the train to pass.