XII
                                (SIDING)

Memories cross us at night like distant
Trains through the fields of the soul.
They flee from us. We feel them. Time drives them
to the remote sleepwalking darkness.
We remain silent, like lonely stations,
cold in the naked dawn.
God is sometimes just the yellow eyelid
of that one light that does not go out.

Deaf, in what deep sidings of oblivion
the wagons of sleep run up and run aground
in the immobility of darkness
while life goes on whistling in the distance.

Sidings of oblivion, where the switchmen
of time sink laughter and hope.
Rusty rails where it is not possible
walk towards dawn.

Oh sad siding
where does condemned joy go,
in which it definitely derails
that childhood toy train.