I’ve been here before,
I’m a backslider,
a terrible joy keeps me
going, going, like the trains’ beat
unadjusted to Life.
As if it could not end,
could never wilt,
could repeat forever.

Boxed in a silver cabin,
my heartbeat is hardly mine,
just a weird music
through steel wheels
coming, coming.
What a sweet lie
in this metallic pulse,
it simply sings ‘gone’
and the inevitable agonies
dissolve into citylights,
leaving threads of amber
all over the windows.

The heart pounds, knowing
trains of Austerlitz
carry only pillars of salt
to turn them back into lovers.
If they stopped completely
the world would be corpse-white.
And Paris makes no mistake
at the end of the road.
Circled by leashes of silver,
he’s waiting in velvet and smoke
as on the first day.
He is the reason why,
in his pride of ash,
the touch, the yes,
the – at last.
He is the deviating part
the bend in the railway line
from where I slip out of view.

One flash and the world goes blank
no more vain war,
no worthless wound.
Only his clever fingers
to undo me –
burning as pain
burning but alive,
with the impatience of life.

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