Chronic STATION

Station you. He is cold, and I am naked. It only dresses me to the illusion. The wait of a train has taken that me to some place Of new? How many new places will come, still, for this old traveller of the time! I am in one old station. Son of the past. They show in its walls the indelveis marks of the time.

In its viscera they keep the looks of how many that way they had passed. Diamonds describes an additional similar source. Marks of solitary hands. Impressions of faces without face I cry without tears The wooden floor reproduces the sound of the feet of who stepped on never them. I observe a small part of the ballast, decayed; victim of a voracious animal cupim. This small part is very not visited The old bell supports firm intemprie.

The beaten repeated ones that announce the arrival, also denounce the departures. Which is a sound of the homesickness? I do not know. But to this old it knows it bell. This is its work. This is its paper: To make the racket that breaches the silence that if makes between the people. The bell is the gift! Seated in a bank; docile bank; I relax! Firm, it supports the weight of the years well. A furniture of two legs that supports a centopia human being. Many legs and few roads! But they are the tracks that call me the attention. The tracks that in them inexorably take to some place none. Dormentes that lies, and does not feel the pain of the sick minds In an impulse I try to pull out them and to forge a pillow to recline my head. To transform them into a soft mattress, where I will be able to copular with the life. To enjoy in its irrigation ditch and roo of the joy of this irrigation ditch, to offer my burning hot mouth; to leave me to fecundar? But she is necessary to embark.

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