Classic Poem

The wind is rough
and the ground is frozen.
The roadbed for the sidetrack is rusted red;
here and there
nut grass still spreads its roots.
Today, too, toward the sea
there are the clouds with only their hems effulgent, and that makes you feel cold.
On the track, sooty, tank-shaped freight cars, strung together, stand still.
Every one of them has thick sulfuric acid or carbon sulfide liquid.