A little snow has stuck to the ground,
the stones in between the sleepers
are brown and black, with that
foamy white shine making them look
both rich and forgotten, buried and lost.
I am in the waiting room, I have time,
( but it's not "time on my side", it has gone
or I have gone too far beyond )
I am beginning later today and for once
I prefer to wait here
despite the estranging atmosphere.
Rhymes can help, like:
the loneliness of the waiting room
is so eternal that goes beyond doom..
well, I smile, in the meantime.
But it's certainly in this place
that the land and time and a cold day
can shatter a heart
dumping a whole being in a silent dump.
Let me tell you once more
of Mr.MacCabe who stumbled on a slope
and froze there to death, while sitting, in the snow.
I could sit here for ages
and keep writing on my snowy blank pages
and forget myself in the waiting room
and be forgotten.
You, "hypocrite lecteur", are you
completely sure you won't share
with me this thought?
A train has just stopped,
the doors are closed, I don't see
any traveller in it.
I gaze at the stones and the patterns of snow.
2 comments:
This very much has the feel of "The Waste Land" about it. Almost an alternative Waste Land, yet still I cannot finally decide whether hypocrite lecteur is quoting Baudelaire or Eliot quoting Baudelaire. Either way, it's an inspired poem.
very evocative of the emptiness of cold train stations in winter
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