The Mail

 In the round hills of Aravalli,

On the steep bridges on Godavari.

The mail train honks silently,

In the silent valley it goes on lonely.

On the steep slopes of Western Ghats,

Across the city roads vacant of cars and carts.

On the banks of goddess Narmada,

At the wedding of River Ganga and Alaknanda.

Swimming through bridges over the sea,

Traveling over the plateaus and lea.

The mail train honks swift,

As the birds of Kutch drift.

The mail either loaded with posts,

Or passengers having tea and toasts.

Haulting at stations once or twice,

Creeping through the V-valleys and farms of rice.I

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