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Тварина (чи Поïзд) – Tvaryna (chy Poizd)

[scroll down to the end of the post for the original spoken word version]

Slowly passing

through the washed out landscape

of two-thirds white lanterns,

the parallel rails lie barren

except for a one-eyed locomotive,

lost and vulnerable

in the circle of looming trees,

all evergreens,

ever grey.

Beneath the two lit orbs a figure

heavily laden with tartan plastic weave bags,

at a less than safe distance

to the non-light of the third full pearl.

The powerlines above

are braided into a net

but who could expect the heavy

white and rust-mottled marshmallow wagons

to fly away?

Maybe they must be kept safe,

like cherry trees from hungry birds.

It looks could outside.

It is warm inside.

The stillness makes the air

heavy.

This metal drake is not made to stay still,

the net cannot keep us safe

for much longer.

The night is still

but it is not dark.

The compartment is dark

but it is not still.

The passengers breathe out

their dreams that disturb the air.

The heavy sliding door is cracked

open, as to not disconnect us

from the river of time

silently rushing past the standing train,

creating currents along its sides.

Restlessness grows in the resting,

unaware

of the little noises escaping their chests,

the animal that senses

the silent presence and loudly bared teeth

from beyond the treeline.

There are explosions in the lands we leave behind.

There are ruins covering the memories

of waiting areas and digital displays

and check-in desks.

Finally, the train reluctantly starts

onward through the washed-out night.

The shadows was and wane

until we are alone again,

with nothing but the silent stream of time as reference

as we follow the tracks

on the only route we can.

Beneath the floor I can feel them running,

four-legged and steaming,

their dedication equaling obsession,

too many muscles

moving underneath their dark hides.

There’s an unceasing battle beneath my back

that makes me tremble.

The rhythm of their hooves

is accented with sharp hits.

There are stretches when the waves

of the hidden war underneath

shake my flesh as if to take

inventory of the

entirety of my body.

I dutifully take note.

Back in the city there was no sign

of the burning towns beyond,

the thought of the towns as cities heavy

and hard.

The tragedy of an entire region

kept in the basement

along with its people,

concealed

by guilt

and fear.

We know.

We know.

But now we are going west.

 

Part Two of the “Summer on Ukrainian Public Transport” Series [1][3]

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16/01/2018 Pat Nehls

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Another depressing poem (with a glimpse of hope) → ← Star Wars: The Last Jedi and holding onto fandoms

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