Nights Trains

by Dorta Jagić


Nights Trains

suitcase in the wardrobe is ready but

a weighty station building isn't on my frail table

nor a whistle or a signalman

just a non-traveling shadows of books and notebooks,

dark blue tea for traveling on the spot is cold 

and the world map for ironing of the earth

turns into flat board

 

when I travel nowhere

I'm locked like a French novelist,

like an addict, and night trains lure me from afar

with bright windows and tinkling,

they wave me with flapping curtains, and envelop

arms and necks of sleepy travelers in curtains just for fun   

like Isidora Duncan's small techniques of death

with verve and full of intricate stories

like a dark Orient-expresses

 

when I travel nowhere

trains on the town's edge slide gently through the dark scented world

detached from the station like adventurers daydreams

they fly like children of dandelions in full bloom on the wind

penetrate like daggers the fat of inert stations.

sullen steel trains escape the traps of standing with ease,

and I would like to write those words in succession 

intercity alta, indian pacific, eurostar paris transsibir,

tundra express, great southern rail, train grande vitesse.

and wagons are travelling again tonight to another time-space

without me

like razors of northern winds

their wide open blades cut off

blunt shadows in the broad night

 

when I travel nowhere

I missed the nights behind windows

of my room becoming red, blue and warm

like a resin from shining sea creatures

and stars wriggle like plankton, and jelly beans 

and harsh winters are warmer for hands

from the languidly warmed up air in a room 

 

I'm standing by the window like a night porter

and listening trains

incise the thick black woods in the south with spines

 

only trees screaming with joy can see the knives,

yews and pines, terebinth and holm oak  

overhang over the motionless land, over the sea

and over buried bones from all wars 

and all peaces.

even a sweet-smelling trees travel nowhere

was my only consolation.

they stand still like bones of missioners, sailors and train operators

buried in the collective area, in the seabed,

an earth-bed 

Translated by Miloš Đuđević and Damir Šodan