Sitting and staring at the landscape
I don’t value these minutes
That can hand out joyful ideas
And first steps
For a new direction.
The train accelerates,
I slow down
Rushing to the train
Is an art on its own
That only with intelligence you can master.
Quick and instinctive my steps
used to accelerate behind the illusion
Of being the first.
I was crashed and let alone on the track.
I learnt too appreciate each step
That with consciousness I stamp on the ground
And can guide myself faster to the station.
Fast and straight it climbs the mountain
With the lord nose being its motor
And the admiring faces its cargo.
The little train knows its way,
On the tract that forbidden to humans,
And its personality is antique and unique,
yet home to the roaming foreigners.
I sit in this train
Fruit of mechanics and engineering
But today Full of eccentric lifestyles and meaningful missions.
I am Searching through the window mine.
The wild and the human concrete
unroll with regularity building expectations
And suspense for the ending
That has not been written yet.
The next station has been called
Once again in this familiar train.
The journey is however different
With a summary of this local world
On the silent pale faces
And the black dogs
Sleeping dreamy below bikes full of desert dust.
I feel today like a diapason
Vibrating to the light and dispensing
a push to change inside.
Shaken and torn
The others move and progress.
Here I am in the boring train
Vibrating through the night.
No finger coming closer.
Travelling through the rain
And wishing a quiet meaningful future.
As a self cuddle available everywhere,
Even on the train.
The train with its jumps,
The radio with its melodies,
The dripping of the rain
Are all rhythms competing with my heart.
I want to follow you
But you are too quiet
And your hiding in the noises leads me nowhere.
To pace my life.
The train stopped
And the steps downwards made me an explorer,
Alone and fit in this stranger city
Of binding rushing active
my self-appreciation returned
And my accidents claimed their size
Made of insecure steps, bravery, and hidden years.
Tapping on the floor
I pace the value of my time
And train my patience.
External observers can judge my work
And evaluate my knowledge
Like a rough diamond under the lens
But no eye can know it all.