THE INDIAN POET

Poetry is rhythmic flow of intense feelings and thoughts

After The Market Day

Written By: Mohanchand
 
 
When sun sets in west and birds fly to nest
Vendors’ shadows stretch long on streets,
as they stand to ease their limbs numbed in seats,
to flick the dust off their sarees, dhotis and turbans,
to comb their unkempt hair and to trim their buns;

They pack their woes of day in empty sacks
Sling them on their shoulders and bent backs;
balancing bare baskets on unsteady heads
pulling their weary bodies in heavy steps
they walk one by one away from streets,
where they sold cabbages and carrots,
cherries and berries, beans and beetroots,
chubby tomatoes, and plumpy potatoes
and yelled for hours rupees and paisas
weighing vegetables in kgs and grams;
battling all the day for little gains
muted their voices in buyers’ bargains;
where they sold the juice of their life
with oranges, apples, mangoes and melon
and baked their bellies sitting up in sun.

All are gone. The day is gone. Night has fallen
on swirling dust, pealed skins, mashed vegetables
on rotten fruits, decaying on deserted streets
for stray dogs and donkeys, cows and calves;
Odour of vendors’ sweat that dripped in sun
lingers and on dark lonely lanes their voices run.

In the dim light of a bent lamp post in the corner
a castrated bull ruminating all it hogged in the day
is waiting again for a fresh catch of the next day.
 

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