Monday, January 18, 2016

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.

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