It is 11.30 at night- A night train is appearing into our sight- Porters are walking up and down the station, They are keeping watch on train’s arrival with great caution- They are frantic to the passengers- who will get down or may be in hurry to get berth of sleepers, They will call for porters, With the names written up on the door- the porters will carry passengers’ baggage on coach-floor, Berths are cosy with neat counterpane- From the guard up to the bag-men- all remain busy with the train.
With the splash of green signal- the guard confirms, all is normal. With the supervision of station-master- the train prepares for its departure. It is night time, the windows will remain shut, No scenery of fields and remote hut will appear or without any access of dust- passengers will go for a sleep. Only railway caterers will ask for night meal, It is passenger’s choice to go with it or remain still. It is their bed time with newly folded sheet- The night mail is running on line with a speed of rift. It is running to capture the morning as fast as it can- It is waiting for passengers’ tea time in the early dawn.
A silence on the night. The day fluttered quietly in whisper soft resonance, So many colours slowly dying Like confetti in the rain, And echoes touched each other, a reunion of themselves, As though they were astounded At their resonating
Put off the lantern. I am waiting for the moon’s primal face. The lesser flamingoes were going to shed the pink color. Nude as a python, the kiss of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation. I suffer in the hands of protests.
It was night sin of domesticity. Dyed, I am loading the white secret of pain in the hollow of a mayhem. Till every blunder takes a downward flight striping the outsized image of a kill. His flames are now singeing