Wednesday, December 30, 2009

The Travel Poem

Vehicles stand like islands
In the polluted shallow ponds.
The tottering plastic top
Is the make shifts office
Of the conductor in front.
He keeps under his feet
A broken hand fan
And often frightens
As if it might be stolen.

With roaring voice he hunts
To collect passengers like cattle
No shelter to hide the sun and rain
A semi open broken space
Where the vehicles take a stand.

Loudly the conductor voices
In telegraphic style
To screen the rush.
The bus starts as an old camel steps
On every one’s face
The journey of innocence glitters.

Semi clad ingenuous passengers
Squeeze their fragile hands.
To place their feet
Keep their head down
Often lifting their legs.
After day long toil
Life rolls on as wind whirls around
It is a returning journey
To their homes every evening.

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