The engine sets the path through the
winters,
the music dissolved in the hustle of
pines and
its whistle lowers.
Under the iron shade, a countless
visitors
surpassed winters, made a thousand
evenings slipped just like that:
going, going, hissing, whistling.
When the summers shined under the
shrubland,
the old engine swollen with dying
memories outbursts again and the
whistle
says the story, it’s the time.
The tiny girls and tiny boys run
beside the
railings, the weight lightens with
joys
and soon we are whisking through the
air,
protected, to the ends in a
never ending collection.
The upstanding mist of the country
drying on the metals is a radiance
laminating its frame, in a continuous
motion,
making the gullies walk along and
mountains ice down.
When the cities are sleeping in the
cold shower
it moves steeply washing into the
wet breeze,
laughing through tunnels,
carrying a million dreams just like
that:
going, going, hissing, whistling.
2 comments:
I liked the imagery and the cheerful word usage. Brilliant never ending journey!
This is impressive. I like the way each stanza begins with two lines producing an image that shines throughout it.
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