The Train Immortal

The train immortal blazes a path Through the seasons of Norway, stopping at my doorstep To unload a passenger, who looks at me, Then lounges back, Taking an apple off of my tree, Talking to the spirits of the wind in a foreign language. The next train will come soon, I know. That's the way of life here: The people come with their black moment-freezers Touch buttons a few times, sheets lighting up, Then jump onto the next train back to Oslo. Thoughtfully chewing on the fruit of many years of labor, The person yells the only Norwegian he knows into the forests... That simple "Luftputefartøyet mitt er fullt av åler!" Tells me, snickering from behind the barn That maybe this man is here to stay.