Poems

The train heads for the end of August 
This is not the green train I remember 
It’s taking me to a whole new land
The music player is repeating one song
The woman throws the baby into the trunk
I hear the sound of crying 
I’m sitting on pins and needles 
I choose to keep silent
Passing through one village to another
No lights, no echoes 
An immortal landscape is rising 
No doubts, no purpose 
All the noise is far away...