POEMS | The Stations of our Life by Dechen Wangpo

POEMS | The Stations of our Life by Dechen Wangpo

The Stations of our Life

By Dechen Wangpo 

Our life is like a train
Which never stops, just runs.
By hissing sometimes a loud,
By whistling sometimes a low.

First reaches Delhi Junctions,
And rests for a while for backup.
When the passengers have boarded,
Again runs away on zig-zag tracks.

Many vendors we meet in a coach.
Watermelons, guavas, and oranges they sell.
Sometimes easily we deal with them
Otherwise quarrelling we do depart.

Then suddenly, the second station it reaches,
Towards the Southern part, at Dadar.
Letting waiting-people to enter,
And again resumes its own journey.

We hear different languages in a coach.
Tibetan, Hindi, English, and so on,
Just as different languages they speak in
The stories they tell are almost the same.

The train makes its path through the fogs
By hooting itself even in no-man lands,
Through all the seasons in a year
It just goes with the passing of every hour.

When a day comes by due to rust,
The engineer gets startled and fixes it again.
Making it healthy for travelling as before,
So justly, it simply starts its journey.

Sometimes it gets delayed by a few hours
For the weather has become so dark,
Yet without resting it just simply
Moves towards the next station every hour.

In an hour it approaches Mughalsarai,
For the people who have booked their tickets till there.
When the green light is lightened,
It departs towards the Eastern part.

The ticket officers move to and fro for checking,
Demanding a good sum if they are found without it.
Again quarrelling and fearing,
We spend our days in the running train.

At last, it reaches the Dibrugarh station,
After travelling for several days.
Its engine has now become hot enough
And is tired for running enough.

When the engineer finds it no more useful,
Then has stopped for storing the daily fuels.
So now when years pass away,
Yet is still there on the same way.

When its friends come and go swiftly,
The Rajdhani, the Mail, the Express, the Malgari and so on.
Letting tears to stream down where it stands
By reminiscing each past joyous moment.

After decades it will be seen,
Encompassed by some miracle crystal-glass.
Then suddenly some students will come and stare
And yell, ‘O! It was built in 97th!’

So our life is like a train,
It stops at different stations.
Just as the train goes and never stops,
So does our life, since it simply goes on.

(You can also send in your poems to iban@thenortheasttoday.com)




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