Member Poem

It was not early in the morning,
Didn't turn off the headlights even then,
All night long, piloting the freight train,
Both crews are on the verge of strain.

Eyes now blinking like a low-battery cellphone.
Shedding the micro-sleep
That came suddenly for a very brief moment,
Saw a granny as if faintly floating beside the track, alone!

Weak steps; hand in empty nylon sack,
Along the lines of a narrow walking path.
It's filled with plenty of ballast,
Just adjacent to the railway track.

White hairs waving in the atmosphere
Around her head like thin clouds moving,
Like the white Catkins rippling their sheaves
In tandem with the gentle air.

Leaning shoulders, lowered vision,
Bending movements searching for pieces of coal
Among the granite ballast stones
That scattered from the speedy coal carrying freight trains.

Where're the pieces falling,
Into the gaps of numerous stones?
She is nearly crawling;
Her eyes are focused and freezed on.

At the bottom of the bag a few pieces of coal
Have accumulated there.
The warnings, the dangers
Of the moving train, always very near.

When will this journey of the old mother
Be over?
When will the empty bag be fulfilled
With the pieces of the picked-up coal?

Yet, she has a handful of wild vegetables to cook,
Through the fire of coal, hard-to-pick.
But exhausted and on an empty stomach,
She just needs to rest in her old torn hammock.