The next station has been called
Once again in this familiar train.
The journey is however different
Each day
With a summary of this local world
On the silent pale faces
And the black dogs
Sleeping dreamy below bikes full of desert dust.
Short fingers
I have only short fingers
To tell my story
And type passionately this night.
In this short distance,
All life condenses in drops of memories
And vapour of lost kisses.
Short words will be ideal
To write those heavy memories,
The persons that can only be remembered,
And the baby steps I climbed
And now behind my back.
