The Small Train in My Memory

For the small train that went so far

It was a small veritable trainWhen it passed bythe driver stuck his head out the windowHis joyfilled those who saw himwith a rare happinessThe small trainstopped at an uncountable number of stationswith names and stations without namesPeople on their way to market fairscould go from a villageto a town where they’d never beenThe train was crowdedIn addition to people, there were suckling pigssnorting and grunting in burlap sacksThe roosters in bamboo basketsfelt they’d walked out of a dark nightinto a hope-filled dawnTheir elated cries rose one after the otherThere were also some women in embroidered clothes on the trainThey stood in clusterscovering their mouths, whispering to each otherThe old man smoking the water pipealways seemed to be squatting in a dark cornerThe scent of the water pipe permeated the air

They all saidit was a small, veritable trainbut . . . since. . . actually. . . yet . . .it already seems to besomething from a distant memory

They all saidit was a small veritable trainIt’s like a story from a mythand a river in a dreamYet all of thisfeels so warmin the context of today’s memorieseven though sometimes a nameless sorrowfills our eyes with tears