| Wednesday, 06 August 2025 | Print
Hobby
Thus, the train entered
Abandoned station.
The way love comes once
In a failed life…
There is no passenger.
No one will get down.
Yet the train halts for a while-
Wind has been scattered like cards
Among the trees
And under the umbrella of the Sun.
Again, the train moves on
From every train, the Station Master,
Collects the sounds of sirens.
Stores in his drawer or bag.
There are some people
Who’s hobbies are storing sounds.
Copywright@Saumyajit Acharya
Posted 10:57 am | Wednesday, 06 August 2025
globalpoetandpoetry.com | Faruk Ahmed Roni
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