This is the platform of the great rats,
everlasting lords born into death,
underneath trains and metallic screech of rails.
This is the platform of sorrow and love,
of the great rats of the evil empire,
of corridors that travel in trains of fog
of the birds that fly one way along the corridors
of fog, scattering the spirit of the wind.
Birds, corridors and passages of fog.
The lens of the eye peers anxiously
here among the rats, the trains, the rails.
The fog announces to us and to you:
No escape. It is lord and master of our entrails.
It is the shadow of our route.
Look, there are the poets who are just
crossing the threshold of the entrance.
They want to be first to bid us welcome,
last to say farewell.
The rails rattle askew at the tread,
the tread of trains arriving
and departing within us.
The new arrives, the old departs.
Here is the ball of love
rebounding off the walls of life
that no one can catch, can touch.
Here everything is secret and concealed,
the platform of the great rats – a great secret.
How many platforms and trains to their souls,
how many platforms and trains to our death -
ask the shadows of the guards of death
born in them, ask the guards
of all the secrets stifled there.