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The far-flung whistle of the colliery
and of the Calcutta-mail
calls me every day after dinner.
The train’s shrill echo and
rhythmic melody of wheels
form a sublime image of
the girl out of my dreams,
waving and smiling;
screaming and crying;
standing and waiting
just for me amidst gasses,
trees and hedges that wave
in solitude and hope.
The curvature of the lopsided land
plays hide and seek along with
the clouds and moon blurring realism.
My belief is incurable and so is
the facade of pleasure that I show
while I follow compellingly,
the whistle of the colliery.
My faith lies in the train,
in the wilderness and
the vaporous figure of my love
while my whims are chained
with famine and society
that may identify me as a mad
once I leave my job and run
into the hazy backwoods.
