The train to despair
Just before the lit-up train dashes
carriageloads of meditative travellers
and quiet music into the tunnel called Despair — into
the mountain that slopes down to the sea
with mecury vapour and lead in its womb —
a moment before the blue icebergs flash —
a mother´s lips brush her sleeping child,
a soldier back from leave unbuckles his belt
and smiles at his memories, a businessman
leafs irritably through duplicated reports.
and only a silver-haires pensioner-pair
wait ready, holding hands, listening to
the beating of each others´ veins, as memory
blows and sighs across the warm inner meadows —
but the driver´s shout has hardly risen
above the waggon-wheels before the mountain
thunders once and is dark.
It happens in the mind.
You realize you´ve been waiting for the morning
in vain, listening to footsteps. They trail away
in the distance, following the echo of your lover´s name.