The train whines on its rails,
in a deserted small station.
Someone has built a road nearby
twining like vines
between walnuts and hazels.
The travelers rest in the shade,
cyclists fall asleep on handlebars,
horse-drawn wagons loiter in dust,
old songs are hummed once again
near the freshly plowed stubble field.
The road expends its transitory prints
slowly and painstakingly
in this age of velocities
aiming different directions.