Folding the sheets, pillow cases,
without creases, starching the handwoven
sarees, take my life out.
I recall the days when I slogged
the whole day caring the children,
running in directions tirelessly.
Of recent, even a slight exertion causes
an exhaustion. I heave hard like
an old puffing train run on steam,
Perspiring profuse, I hear a feeble
whistle from my nostrils akin to the
rickety old train’s blowing.
I, like the train, slow down
when I am about to reach
the destination at 9 in the night
the day draws to a close ,
smoke and steam diffuse, My eyes
close as slumber overwhelms.
One reply on “No More An Express Train”
This even express the life of women on each stage. You have written this beautifully. The sacrifices of women can be felt while reading them. Keep writing many many poems like this.