I rest the pen over the riotous calligraphy,
Sliding in the scenery, feeling and listening every rail.
The sun has been absent for uncountable weeks,
A morbid green merges with the fog,
The monotony of the landscape makes my eyes retreat.

Childishly I strangle the ticket among the fingers,
People sleep, people chatter on the phone.
Next to me a gloomy policeman peruses a  scandal on a tabloid.
In front, a girl measures him with disdain.
Beside her a young lady has just sat.
She moves slowly, but elegantly and weightlessly.
Her only luggage: a pocket book.
On the cover, sombre soldiers and timorous peasants,
Turgenev, "Fathers and Sons".
The conductor announces himself.
She closes the book and depicts  a smile.
Our eyes rise and encounter.
We look at each other in prolonged silence.
In her I reencounter the serene beauty of your face,
Ever cherished in the safest compartment of my memory.
 

M.Daedalus