Trains travel on a two-railed course
of what has been and what shall be.

The sky is the ash
that Death has brewed his coffee from
and scatters now to make the living breathe it.
It seeps inside their hearts and veins.
Through the glass, everything eludes us:
flecks of dust in a beam of light,
songs of wind, the barrage on the river,
flocks of birds,
the poles that hold the power lines …
Everything cludes us. Water
cannot be held in the hand,
nor do dreams linger
on the balconies of eyes.

Trains depart, and passengers
arrive,
and do not arrive.