Ashok Niyogi
The rail-line outside the window
While looking away
And talking to you enmeshed in Moscow,
Maybe,
It is the Trans-Siberian rail
From Vladivostok to Kiev.
Donāt grieve.
Autumn is brief
A day or two before the snow,
When, like your cheeks
The flowers glow,
In my Siberian meadow.
Not much of a town,
Sidewalks dirty,
Babushkas in dowdy tweeds,
But the snow will hide retreats
In the snow.
And at the end I will ask
What happened to the leaves,
To the little children
Who go to school,
What happened to the sun?
Is it having fun?
