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The train on the track.
I live in third world, may be second, I dunno.
Some savant sitting in his university-office, big
Ole daddy, divided earthly crust between ourselves.
I am one of the teeming millions, jostling in the
over-crowded trains, people hanging on the
door-handle. The train rolls on keeping us alive,
we move to and fro just to survive.I wish I could
derail the train to see what happens to my soul
in the cold night-train carrying souls in limbo.
In the fall, the fields are bare, nothing grows
Let us come deeper, in the entrails of life, burning
with hunger, with naked body, hands thrown up
in prayer. Do you smell the scent of soil? sweetened
with body's sudor-budding life for the next summer,
so I sow the poetry on the lonely fields.
poem
by
Aloke Mukherjee
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