I was in the seat and the train
was running through my body,
breaking down my frontiers–
suddenly, it was the train of my childhood,
smoke of the early morning,
bittersweet of summer.
There were other trains which were fleeing,
their cars well-filled with sorrows,
like a cargo of asphalt;
so did the stationary train run on
in the morning which was growing
heavy about my bones.
I was alone in the solitary train,
but not only was I alone–
a host of solitudes were gathered
around the hope of the journey,
like peasants on the platforms.
And I, in the train, like stale smoke,
with so many shiftless souls,
burdened by so many deaths,
felt myself lost on a journey
in which nothing was moving
but my exhausted heart.
translated by Alastair Reid