The Fish Market Poem by Puskar Sikdar

I heard from my teacher once,
A familiar phrase that struck a glance.
In class, when chaos took its part,
He'd say, "Is this a fish market or an art? "

Before the scolding could take its hold,
The classroom roared, loud and bold.
But with his words, silence fell,
As if a storm had lost its spell.

The fish market now stands still,
No bustling cries, no voices shrill.
In the morning, eyes meet with sighs,
By evening, the silence quietly lies.

Some shout and scream to sell their fare,
While others simply glance and stare.
A look, a gesture, words unspoken,
Bargains made, bonds not broken.

As the sun sets in a golden glow,
The icy fish seem to stir and flow.
Shrimps leap in joy, playful and free,
Dancing in the light of glee.

Yet the fish seller stands, weary and grim,
Waving off flies with a flick of a limb.
Eyes empty, pockets light,
He packs up to face the night.

Sleepless hours, endless thought,
A life with struggles, battles fought.
At dawn's break, with eyes that burn,
His wife awaits his silent return.