It was a much sought-after departure
from the barnacles of squatting boredom.
I packed up, took a taxi and squeezed
into the evening traffic crawling on the route,
stifled at the bent with iron and concrete:
skeletons of a future fly-over slinging
from a tangle of red tape, design and greed.
The cab drove past snapshots slowly unwinding:
a victory march in election loosening anarchy,
communal frenzy fomented in a religious rally,
close to half-lit mud huts a marriage reception
rapping vulgar display of wealth, an ambulance
bleeping with someone's evening on oxygen.
I reached the station where, time suspended,
a motley crowd in shades of waiting mood
made a noisy, blurred, indifferent scenario:
lying on snatches of sleep, running to and fro,
making endless queries, gazing at outer signals -
all engrossed in arrivals and departures.
My train arrived; I stepped into the confine
of an insular coach, looking through tinted glass
at the world outside I was trying to escape.
My heart returned to the scenes on the platform.
Life is never fully lived; waiting for something
makes it desirable, intense. Why think of escape?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Life is never fully lived, waiting for something Makes it desirable, intense. Why think of escape? Very positive and cleverly drawn inference at the end of turmoil of thoughts provoking to be a escapist. The style of your narration of things is fantastic. Enjoyed the poem. Thanks for sharing.10 points.