The Train of the Wounded
Silence shipwrecked in the silence
of the mouths closed at night.
It does not cease to be silent or to traverse it.
It speaks the drowned language of the dead.
Silence.
It opens roads of deep cotton,
gags the wheels of the watches,
stops the voice of the ocean, of the dove:
it stirs with emotion the night of dreams.
Silence.
The rainy train of flowing blood,
the fragile train of the bleeding,
the silent, painful, pallid train,
the hushed train of suffering.
Silence.
Train of the mounting mortal pallor:
the pallor coating the heads,
the cry of pain, the voice, the heart, the ground,
the hearts of the badly wounded.
Silence.
They are spilling out legs, arms, eyes—
they are spilling out fragments all over the train.
They pass, leaving a wake of bitterness,
a second Milky Way of starry limbs.
Silence.
A hoarse, faltering, reddened train:
the coal is dying, the smoke sighs,
and the engine sighs like a mother
and pushes forward like a long dejection.
Silence.
This long mother would like to stop
in a tunnel and lie down to sob.
There are no stations to stop at,
except in the hospital or the heart.
To live, a fragment is enough:
a man can squeeze into a corner of flesh.
A single finger, a single piece of wing
can support the total flight of the entire body.
Silence.
Stop that dying train
that never ceases to cross the night.
And even the horse remains unshod,
and sand gets into its hoofs and breath.
of the mouths closed at night.
It does not cease to be silent or to traverse it.
It speaks the drowned language of the dead.
Silence.
It opens roads of deep cotton,
gags the wheels of the watches,
stops the voice of the ocean, of the dove:
it stirs with emotion the night of dreams.
Silence.
The rainy train of flowing blood,
the fragile train of the bleeding,
the silent, painful, pallid train,
the hushed train of suffering.
Silence.
Train of the mounting mortal pallor:
the pallor coating the heads,
the cry of pain, the voice, the heart, the ground,
the hearts of the badly wounded.
Silence.
They are spilling out legs, arms, eyes—
they are spilling out fragments all over the train.
They pass, leaving a wake of bitterness,
a second Milky Way of starry limbs.
Silence.
A hoarse, faltering, reddened train:
the coal is dying, the smoke sighs,
and the engine sighs like a mother
and pushes forward like a long dejection.
Silence.
This long mother would like to stop
in a tunnel and lie down to sob.
There are no stations to stop at,
except in the hospital or the heart.
To live, a fragment is enough:
a man can squeeze into a corner of flesh.
A single finger, a single piece of wing
can support the total flight of the entire body.
Silence.
Stop that dying train
that never ceases to cross the night.
And even the horse remains unshod,
and sand gets into its hoofs and breath.
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