ROUTE

Aboard the express train
we fly over the unreality of the continent.

Evening muted in mirrors,
and farewells bleed in my mind.

Throughout this journey,
my nostalgic heart presages
vagrant literatures
that shook the feathers
from their wings,
on the chill corridors of the landscape.

They go past somnambulist countrysides
while the train moves off within the tunnels of sleep.

There, from time to time,
cities
stoned by screams and goodbyes.

Rivers of poppies
that come from the depth of the years,
proceed interminably,
under bridges,
which affirmed
their metallic waterfall
over the slopes.
Afterwards, mountains, silent armies
howl at death.

Between cracks of the night
the insomnia of a star torments me.
Trains that travel ever toward absence,
one day,
without knowing it,
we will pass each other
in the country.