|
|
||
|
Train station looming from the tunnel mouth, reflections of twisted light chopped by the chaotic scratches on the dirty window, dirty with paintings, with time, with smoke and with a thousand coats of sighs. The train stops, opens its gates, vomits parts of its charge of bipeds and allows to be invaded, lurking, by the relay loading. Voices, behind, voices from the east, voices from far away that resound loudly in the almost empty wagon, as if conjuring the world outside the train, that elusive reality, replacing it with a common territory, pasture and feud of the eastern voices, that still drag along the laughter the remembrance of another sun, of another wind, of a woman's smile shining white, of rough and dark clothes stirring in a memory that already can't be known if it comes from the memory's path or from the fantasy's one. Crossbeams, posts, cables (catenaries, catenaries, implacable repetition of hyperbolic cosines). Pillars. Shadows that leap playing hide and seek in slow motion with the sun. A shy sky, somewhere, out from the black crust of cement, stone, concrete, mud, sludge and flesh that is, in fact, Madrid. One reality: This one of mine. The other, that oriental remembrance that still floats in the uneasy trembling wagon, a bit more silent now that the time passed in the tunnel extinguishes the blue memories. Trains that pass one over the other, loaded with strange voices, with unapproachable worlds, with memories, thoughts, ideas, smiles, sorrows and most of all, above all,
|
||