There is nothing else but miles of darkness
And the train runs non-chalantly
Like a serpentine river in the death of desert.
All aboard are asleep except a few
Who stare at the darkness through their windows
And watch their life stare back
In one long film of moving monotony.
Small stations pass by every now and then
With their kerosene lamps flickering
And glowing with the silent wind
Which at another time and space
Was a tornado – mighty and invincible.
The silence of the journey speaks
In loud echoes through epochs
This is what life is, this is what life is.