Poems by Sayan Aich

Ants

The ants on my wall

Form a long procession from opposite sides,

Meeting and greeting each other,

Maybe a warm hug, maybe a kind word,

Then cross each others’ path

And are on their way.

My grandmother, if alive,

Would have hoped people migrated like that,

To their Pakistans

To their Hindustans.

——————-

The Railway Station

You see, my home for the last fifteen years,

Has been near a railway station.

Every night, the last goods train leaves at 12:35,

Carrying off the night inside its coaches.

The tracks, spat, pissed and trampled upon throughout the day,

At night, breathes like a patient on life support.

I hear the whistle assault the air

Between two stations,

The clock tells time,

In bits and pieces.

The darkness gathers in small tobacco pouches,

I see the moon running after the train.

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