Suspended in time, beneath the canopy high
I lie on my bed, and gaze at the sky
The wheels beat a tattoo – they spell out a rhyme
The train moves past wild grass and thyme.
Trees and grass, rocks and stone
Here there are leaves, there: there are bones
The telegraph poles rise up and down
They follow the contours and flow of the ground
A fence and a barrier that marks off a road
A tiny little stream where squints an old toad
The oxen in the fields sedately walking by
The dog’s long howl, the bird’s wailing cry
Now a bridge comes – the train clangs past
The people peer out – first bogey to last
The train slows down – it’s not the journey’s end
It’s just a little station, at the next bend.
The porters, hawkers and passengers scream
I lie down again, and settle down to dream
Amid the loud babble, a shrill whistle sounds
Somewhere in the distance, is the yapping of some hounds
The train slowly starts and then picks up speed
It carries all people of various caste and creed
I travel in the train, for I love to roam
But I have always found there’s no place like home
The journey’s end comes, my heart beats fast
The memories of the journey slowly file past
I sigh, yet I smile for though I feel sad
Believe it or not – every journey’s end is glad