Giovanni Malito
The train stops, not at a station
but somewhere in between
where there’s nothing to see but fields.
The grass along the tracks is waving
only slightly, and in the near distance
there’s a glitter from some golden heather.
Inside the carriage no-one is speaking
and we all sit in silence; as if
each one of us were completely alone.
And not one of us really knows exactly
where we are, but I think we each know
we are somewhere on the way to there.