Nameless stations rush past, forlorn at dusk.
Trees, leafless like dead, black before the blue-gray sky.
Shapes of birds flying by, moving things across the seemingly motionless heavens.
The country changes endlessly, meaningless houses clustered to villages,
some lights like living stars pass by in a monotonously indifferent haze: Unchanging in its constant change.
(Yet again, a nameless sickly orange station, no soul to be found.)
The only thing in view that accompanies the flight are blue clouds and the dusty horizon, always present, though never to be seen. Above, a dark-blue curtain changing to torn clouds, allowing a glimpse on the crimson sky,
... like milk covered in mist.
Vanishing colours in the last light of the day illuminate the seams of objects
melting into shadows. Standing still for a moment, out of these shadows crawls living green grass, lit by window-light, shaken by such a disturbance.
Glowing in the half-light; silver train-tracks; and suddenly, just for a short et