hello @d-pend a very inspiring poem where a lone train wanders over a colossal aura as always a good poem to read.
I apologize for daring to have stolen this photo of your poem since I did not get a better image on the internet for the poem.
Source imagen @d-pend
Small train between the volcanoes, sliding wagons on rails wet by the rain for life, between mountains frizz and sorrow of burned sticks.
Oh border of dripping forests, wide ferns, water, of crowns. Oh cool territory fresh from the lake, of the river, the sea or the rain with wet hair, with the waist full of portentous lianas, and then in the middle of vegetations, in the line of the multiplied hair, a lost plume, the duster of a runaway locomotive with a train dragging vague things in the crushing solemnity of nature, throwing a cry of anxiety, of smoke, like a chill in the landscape!
So from its waves the wheat fields with the passenger train they talk as if it were shade, waterfall or bird from those latitudes, and the trensu spark of scorched coal distributes with dark devil's malignity and continues, follow, continue, climb the high viaduct of the Malleco river like climbing up a guitar and singing on the heights of the blue balance of the hardware store, whistles the vibrant train of the end of the world as if it were saying goodbye and going to fall where the terrestrial space ends, it was going to go down between the final islands of the ocean.
I'm going with you, train, fast-paced border train: I go to Renaico, wait for me, I have to buy wool in Collipulli, wait for me, I have to go down in Quepe, in Loncoche, in Osorno, look for pine nuts, freshly woven fabrics, with smell to sheep and rain ... Run, train, caterpillar, whisper, longitudinal animal, between the cold leaves and the fragrant earth, it runs with taciturn men in black blankets, with saddles, with silent sacks of potatoes from the islands, with the wood of the red larch, of the oloroso coigue, of the everlasting oak.
Oh train explorer of loneliness, when you come back to the hangar of Santiago, to the hives of man and his crossed power, you sleep perhaps for a sad night a dream without perfume, without snows, without roots, without islands waiting for you in the rain. motionless between anonymous wagons.
But me, between an ocean of trains, in the sky of the locomotives, I would recognize you Certainly air from afar, by your wet wheels far away, and by your pierced heart that knows the unspeakable, wild, rainy, blue fragrance!