Poem
Sun overhead afternoon perhaps,
A middle-aged woman behind the furnace,
in a cottage amidst the trees of cedar and wild lilacs,
Baking bread on the skillet by smoldering coal and cow dung cake,
Having Rings of blisters on her knuckles because of the steam that passed,
When she long pressed the chapati by the tongs in her hand,
A wreath of sweat droplets around her neck
shining like the beads of crystal glorifying her efforts,
Her foot sole full of thrush by collecting the wood logs,
Her body is searing by the embers of the sun and is tanned,
Suddenly Gray fumes emanate when she blows the coal through
A cylindrical bamboo pipe to maintain a good flame to bake,
That Envelopes her dilapidated hut as the blanket of fog that soon disappeared,
Beside her cottage is a railway track which is shuddering
announcing the arrival of the train,
Yet no visitor since years in her lane.
HAPPY READING!!
