The Train, Passing Trains

When a boy, I used to see With love The trains, Trains coming, Coming on the tracks And passing, Passing by The locomotive engines Some run by coal, Some by diesel, Mainly the coal-propelled Engines And the halts Solitary and manless At a secluded place And the landscape Highlandish and green Strangely On the fringe, Edge of the village tract, Away from Habitation and haunt. The train about to come, Coming As for signalled, The light turning green Or stopping by For being red At a lonely place, Starting, Starting to chug And go by And passing, Passing by And crossing The dry rivulet bridge And from the rivulet Visible The passengers Sitting in compartments By the windows. The train, Trains coming, Coming, Pausing, Stopping by, The green flag Being waved, The guard whistling And the train Chugging, Leaving by With a trail of bogies Like the match boxes Children with, So scenic and landscapic, The trains Reaching the station And the men on the platform Trying to get into, Get down. The train, Trains About to come And coming, The signal denoting it, The tracks creaking, People seeing the signal, Reading time, Waiting for And with the luggage, Consulting the halt men And the vendors And the porters And the train Coming, Coming And reaching the platform, Whistling, Whistling and coming Covering a long distance. The villagers With the bundles of clothes, The up-to-date With the attache In the hands Smart and handsome, The vendors With vegetables And the baskets Trying to put up Somewhere Waiting, Waiting for The train Coming, Chugging, Covering a long distance To get into, Get down And the train whistling, Whistling and coming, Shaking the tracks And with a trail of smokes And particles left behind.