The Fairy Queen’s Song

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— A Poem for the World’s Oldest Working Steam Engine

Born of brass and iron pride,
In eighteen fifty-five she cried.
A newborn queen of steam and flame,
Her breath was fire, her soul untame.

She wore no crown, yet ruled the rails,
With ivory gleam and polished nails.
Her whistle sang like a lark at dawn,
Across the plains her power drawn.

Through dusty towns and fields of grain,
She carved her path like summer rain.
With wheels that turned like ticking time,
She danced to tracks in rhythmic rhyme.

Empires rose and empires fell,
But still she ran, proud sentinel.
A relic not of rust, but grace—
With stories etched on every face.

Then silence came, the world grew fast,
And steam was caged in museum glass.
Yet hands of care, and hearts that yearned,
Restored the Queen — and how she burned!

Now from Delhi’s arms she steams anew,
To Rewari skies of dusky blue.
With passengers who seek the past,
A ride where echoes ever last.

She glides like poetry set free,
A furnace-fed eternity.
And when she breathes that haunting note,
It’s history that rides the smoke.


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