The Toy Train

Whenever the whistle

Of the prestige pressure cooker

From the kitchen

Resounds in my ears,

I feel as if:

The smoke - bellowing toy train

Making rhythmic voices

Flaring its nostrils,

Runs on the tiny track,

And on the way

Waves to the cedar trees

And says:

I shall return by evening

At the last whistle,

It stops at the hill - station,

Exhausted.

Tr. Baidar Bakht