The Sikh unwinds his white turban,
shakes out his black hair,
washes it, dries it in the sun,
and waits.
Here in Kurukshetra, in this dust,
in this heat, in this season,
in this daze of light,
not even the station master
knows if my train will arrive.
Wheat glows in the fields.
The rails gleam and disappear.
Copyright © 1999 by Richard
Fein.
