The Train I Travel

The train I travel is moving.
I see uncountable heads:
Black and white;
Chubby and bonny-
Smiling, sleeping, thinking-
All are human heads.
Then why there are glasses
Only in some bogies?
Why there are classes,
First, second and third?
I hear horrendous sound
Peculiar only to a train:
The sound of the clanging of iron,
The sound of machine;
Oh! Machine, which made
All the differences.
There is a stop- a station-
Again the rush, the pull, the race,
The sound of the machine
Spread through the station.
Perhaps they sing, listen,
Sleep, swallow and enjoy;
The blessed classes.
But who cares,
There are human insects
Surviving in the third class!
(Read at Kritya International Poetry Festival)