It Is the Song of a Road
To Kerstin from Sweden
My train is singing
the song of roads.
I see through a window:
Yellow and red trees
are seeing me off
with sorrowful, mysterious eyes.
The wet from a rain,
the bushes,
the grass, and October’s flavours,
are telling me,
«Maybe
we shall never meet again.»
I am looking through the window,
There are a lot of old little houses
under ramshackle, black roofs
in lonely, poor villages.
They are looking at this train,
and at of me in this window.
There aren’t many people in these villages,
Almost never is children’s laughter heard here.
But I think, somewhere,
two old persons, a man and a woman,
are watching the TY program of Sweden,
And after that they are traveling
in their thoughts and dreams, to that country.
But they heard nothing
about two Swedish people: Kerstin with Olle,
about their little red house,
about horses and the fields nearby.
Yellow and red trees
are seeing me off
with sorrowful, mysterious eyes.
My train is singing
the song of roads.
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