By Train
On every journey I
am always on the wooden bench
of my third-class car
—traveling light, without much baggage.
Although it's night,
I can't lie down to sleep;
by day I'm busy watching
small trees go by,
so I never sleep on the train,
and nonetheless, I'm fine.
This pleasure of going somewhere!
London, Madrid, Ponferrada,
lovely places... to se off toward.
The annoying part is the arrival.
The train, as it goes along,
always makes us dream,
and we almost forget
the iron horse we're riding.
Oh, the donkey
that knows the route so well!
Where are we?
Where are we all getting off?
Across from me is pretty
young nun.
She wears that serene expression
that turns suffering
into infinite hope.
And I think: your goodness lies
in giving your love
to Jesus; you don't wish
to be the mother of sinners.
Yet you are
maternal,
blessed among women,
little virginal mother.
Something in your face is divine
under your linen headdress.
Your cheeks
—those yellow roses—
were pink, and
fire burned within you;
and today, wife of the Cross,
you are light, and only light...
All beautiful women
must have been like you, maidens
closed into a convent!...
And the girl I love,
alas, might prefer to marry
some young barber!
The train goes on and on
and the engine puffs
and coughs with a whooping cough.
We travel on a blaze of sparks!
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