The Labourers On Wheels Poem by Abu Siddik

Ramzan month,
The usual crowd is missing,
Hawkers look sad.

I sit close to a set of labourers,
Handles of shovels, peeping out of plastic sacks,
Look like half-burnt legs.

The smart one has bought a kerchief,
Red as a rose, the drooping man is folding
A brand new napkin on his lap.

Hands are winter trees,
Bare, coarse, full of lines,
Playing with a pouch of dry green peas.

The sacrificial goats of the village
Suffering from a bad cold, mucus is coming
Out of their nostrils, they are saying.

At Beldanga station, they watch
Goods train waiting to be unloaded,
And they talk of the cement-smeared faces.


The train stops at Plassey,
I leave,
They are still talking about the wagons...