Midnight Train

By Walter William Safar

Whenever I take a seat in the pale,
old dust-chained seat
of the midnight train,
I feel
like sitting on my own altar.
In third class, a gentleman’s desperation
grows as his eyes
meet
the gaze of a priest.
The reflections of two different worlds in the window,
the gentleman looks
as if speculating is his most revered vocation,
and the priest looks
as if prayer is his most revered vocation.
Due to the cold reflections of their gazes,
two shadows shiver in the wind
of the even colder surroundings,
and a grey fog drags along the train car,
being the only passenger without a destination.
The priest and the gentleman,
it seemed,
did not pay attention
to each other,
but they doubted
each other,
eternally suspecting
that the other would be
a client of God in the case:
Conscience versus Conscience.
Now I know! All that time,
the midnight train was a glittering,
running bridge,
connecting so many different souls,
always surrounded by
air
full of the earth’s scent.
The midnight train showed me
so much mercy,
always on time,
making the wandering poet’s path through life
so smooth
and easy,
sending so many different souls down my way,
just like this writing
about my midnight train
is a resume!

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