You let the wind play
while I sleep.
You relentlessly disallow
any next stations.
Beautiful it is. The world passing by
in my windows. My compartment is
painted beige. A few hands. My favourite color.
For the journey.
So beautiful in a dream.
Jokingly white, in silhouettes.
You never wait in the night
at passing by stations.
I dash in the light – of tunnels.
And I begin to guess. Beyond the speed of sense.
I remain at the point you set.
Along the glittering rails.
The glass is covered with dust. From the steam.
Or from the exhausted gas of global warming.
From the time zone or
from the definition of the journey.
Beige is my color. Intense.
On the back of time I take notes of
in the list of trains.
Tunnels are crossing places.
And the colors- just a game.
Wake me up at destination. If you wish.
Your fingers somewhere on the glass.