Train station

I’m always afraid
  of the same being late
for completing the things
  I’ll have never time for.
Saying sadly goodbye
  on the platform, I wait
for the next sudden brief
  on departures of trains.

I can neither get train
  nor step down to rails,
And it looks like my feet
  have been fixed to the place.
How much of the joy
  did they take, leaving me?
Each of them was a brick
  with the mark VIP.

Blessing them with the sign
  of the christian cross,
Howling gloomly inside,
  I paint portraits with verse.
Did I promised to God
  that by singing to them
I would pay in advance
  for my funeral mess?

You yourself have confessed,
  feeling ghostly tonight,
“Such a thirst for the depths,
  longing tortures my heart.”
And the station of trains,
  melancholic indeed, 
seems to be a retreat
  for the ones who left home.

I have found in heart
  a strange ticket as well,
it was given to me
  for some reason at birth:
neither number nor stamp,
  neither city nor date –
there’s nothing at all
  indicated on it.

And it looks like I wait
  for an odd wagon-lit,
it’s obliged to arrive
  so sudden for me –
neither music nor words,
  very simple and mute –
just to free me from life
  at the station of trains.

October 21, 2011
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