Thursday, December 15, 2011


The engine sets the path through the winters,
the music dissolved in the hustle of pines and
its whistle lowers.
Under the iron shade, a countless visitors
surpassed winters, made a thousand
evenings slipped just like that:
going, going, hissing, whistling.

When the summers shined under the shrubland,
the old engine swollen with dying
memories outbursts again and the whistle
says the story, it’s the time.
The tiny girls and tiny boys run beside the
railings, the weight lightens with joys
and soon we are whisking through the air,
protected, to the ends in a
never ending collection.

The upstanding mist of the country
drying on the metals is a radiance
laminating its frame, in a continuous motion,
making the gullies walk along and
mountains ice down.
When the cities are sleeping in the cold shower
it moves steeply washing into the wet breeze,
laughing through tunnels,
carrying a million dreams just like that:
going, going, hissing, whistling.


Priyanka said...

I liked the imagery and the cheerful word usage. Brilliant never ending journey!

Dave King said...

This is impressive. I like the way each stanza begins with two lines producing an image that shines throughout it.