Railways
(An inmigrant feeling).
While I was watching the train leave I came to think that poetry can happen by itself as far as there are at least two possible paths to follow. I assumed that in life, as for railways, this should be guaranteed.
This afternoon and this train were not really taking anything mine apart, and even so I felt something inmigrant as I watched it moving away; therefore I suddenly got ready to leave in the opposite direction, among hopeful people and goodbyers who did not seem to let the train or the station go away, as my mind was on purpose becoming lost on the difference between departing and arriving.
I decided to lead my malicious way to a score of pigeons getting their own meal all together at the platform and only disturbed by the fact of losing their group proximity.
Had I left home or had I finally returned home?
It is not that I thought the answer was important, but rather that I found it important to keep the choice intact in order to possibly continue triggering poetry.
