The Train, Passing Trains Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

When a boy, I used to see
With love
The trains,
Trains coming,
Coming on the tracks
And passing,
Passing by
The locomotive engines
Some run by coal,
Some by diesel,
Mainly the coal-propelled
Engines
And the halts
Solitary and manless
At a secluded place
And the landscape
Highlandish and green
Strangely
On the fringe,
Edge of the village tract,
Away from
Habitation and haunt.

The train about to come,
Coming
As for signalled,
The light turning green
Or stopping by
For being red
At a lonely place,
Starting,
Starting to chug
And go by
And passing,
Passing by
And crossing
The dry rivulet bridge
And from the rivulet
Visible
The passengers
Sitting in compartments
By the windows.

The train,
Trains coming,
Coming,
Pausing,
Stopping by,
The green flag
Being waved,
The guard whistling
And the train
Chugging,
Leaving by
With a trail of bogies
Like the match boxes
Children with,
So scenic and landscapic,
The trains
Reaching the station
And the men on the platform
Trying to get into,
Get down.

The train,
Trains
About to come
And coming,
The signal denoting it,
The tracks creaking,
People seeing the signal,
Reading time,
Waiting for
And with the luggage,
Consulting the halt men
And the vendors
And the porters
And the train
Coming,
Coming
And reaching the platform,
Whistling,
Whistling and coming
Covering a long distance.

The villagers
With the bundles of clothes,
The up-to-date
With the attache
In the hands
Smart and handsome,
The vendors
With vegetables
And the baskets
Trying to put up
Somewhere
Waiting,
Waiting for
The train
Coming,
Chugging,
Covering a long distance
To get into,
Get down
And the train whistling,
Whistling and coming,
Shaking the tracks
And with a trail of smokes
And particles left behind.