I always wait echoes of the bell of the last train,
On an old bench, with love, my ancient friend,
Patiently, I often read 'Gone With The Wind',
Though, I keep forgetting the deceptive end.
The sun leaves a yellow smile on the platform,
Light precedes the breathless shades into east,
Umbrella-like shade on two bare sticks chuckles,
Then manages to creep to me as a tamed beast.
The cold mist blurs the scene frequently on time,
All love when it prevails to hide their loneliness,
The station, the bell, the rails and the only being.
The quiet distances unfetter infections of sadness.
Nothing in place cools nor awakens heavy-eyed
The bell have no desire to ring for the uncertain
Of exiled hopes venturing to read one more page,
Thus are eternally left in the world's dim curtain.
I can't close the book where she retires unhurt,
Her beauty streams lively on frozen dark words,
I see her continually in fields, on breasts of earth,
Running before melodies, lilies and happy birds.