Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne

The Train Is Burning

The train is burning right here, in the station, softly turning to gas, a handful of dust, so we make our way through all this construction carefully, across a bridge of viscid mist, through autumn, and outside the ocean hisses in haze and magma. The day's ebullitions froth at the edges, high tide. A spiteful moon turns the body, sticks a rag doll, does voodoo. The season is over and there are plenty of random rooms to rent, even with a view. Graceful echoing can be heard from lofty gulls anchored in the sky, and there's a path to duly follow later down to the local bar with the fleet commander and the entire crew. But watch out! The fisherman throws dice, the wreck of a beautiful novel rusts in the park.

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