The Lone Survivor Poem by Swamidhason Francis

“All are dead! ” shouted the old man tout and tall;
“Oh My God! ” they heard him murmur ere his fainted fall
On the steps of the station, in Balvano at the edge of Southern Italy;
Already defeated by Allies, Benito Mussolini’s fascists were booted-out
Beyond the steep gradient of Battipaglia, up to this mountain hide out.
Out ran the master, holding flags green and red with a whistle as armory.
The man lay there panting wild with his last journey in his memory.


Low grade coal filled the steam engine; the charcoal sparred flames;
The engine coughed twice and emitted smoke with deadly fumes;
The crew of six took positions from engine to enclosed bogeys
With assigned hooks; travelers got engrossed with goods and looks,
And the ‘Black Market Express’ was green flagged.
The spring was still clued to winter as severe shortage and supplies
Of food and essentials sprang like the curse of wartime March;
With black market supplies and fresh commodities for service men,
Bartered for flesh, the freight was loaded beside a motley crowd.
Its meandering journey started on wet rails as it started gliding
Like a round heeled snake dragging the chained bogeys and extra cars.
All were jammed with black-coated Euro peoples collected
From the plains of Naples, set towards Basilicata, beyond the Armi tunnel
Furrowed into the Eboli mountain rocks; deep, dense, and dark.


Santiago reclined in his black seat of bark
With dreams of relaxed holidays in the empty bogey locking
Lighted Sun outside the shuttered windows and began to sleep.


“Who is this man? ” the master asked in vain.
The troops with batons ran to him in disdain.
“I had seen him running, ” said one in faked pain.
More soldiers and more rifles in starched uniform
Footed the tracks; the waiting travelers halted;
Crooks crouched in private rooms and some bolted
Off in fright. ”Where has he come from? ” the chief croaked.
The station master looked around with senses corked.
Nobody knew where he came from or where he worked.



And the train climbed the track, sleek and steep;
The crew threw more coal to the weal of the steam engine
And the embers ignited its entrails; it rolled on the rails
With heat; sparks splintered everywhere like burning flies
And the train moved on, moaning like a woman in labor;
The engine inched forward exhaling odorless gas of black cloud
That hovered over the train with a vengeful stench in the dense fog
Haggling and clutching the automobile like a haunting spirit.
The slow rocking train lulled the passengers more than five hundred
To and fro into sleep; like crying babies cradled to rest, they rested
Their rustic heads on the barks, resting on their rusted arms of iron;
And the narrow mouthed tunnel pouched the train into its dark track.


“Check his person” commanded the chief guard
“We find a paper in his pocket, ” saluted a guard.
The master had a quainter look and declared
More to himself than to the Allied command
‘Ticket for the freight train 8017”
“He bought it in Naples”,
“And arrived here running, ? ”
“Where is the train then? ” fumed the armed man.
“It is delayed by hours more than three.”
“What happened? ” his question indeed busted a quest.



The pursuing black cloud too entered the tunnel jostling in darkness
For space to hide its deadly poison: carbon monoxide.
The suffocated tunnel pulled the train into darkness in blind fury;
The engine demurred, gushing out more gas and more fume.
And the emitted smoke clung to the train like the furred tail of a squirrel.
The train meandered off the tunnel, like a rodent choked out by smoke
And started rolling like an empty shell from an untrained sniper’s barrel
On the wet rail before coming to a lifeless still;
And the poison, the gas and the fumes hung in air still.



Jolted by a hiccup, Santiago stood upright in sleep
Opening his sleepy eyes in dark, he looked bewildered
Inside the closed compartment; he pushed up the window panes;
“Has the train reached Balvano? ”
.
He looked out to see everything covered in blackened coal dust,
The trees stood like grey ghosts fresh from the embers of hell.
And the train looked drained of life and stood in morbid silence.
In a sudden burst of madness, he jumped off.
“What the hell’s happening? ’

Quickly he peeped into other bogeys; the passengers seemed
Lost in sleep, with a fresh coat of blackness riveted to their skin;
He climbed in to see why they had long naps;
“All are dead.”
He felt dead, as he scanned the lengthy train and saw them all dead.
Time stood still.
The train stood still.
The chill gripped his head and held it still.
Putting his head over his heels, he bolted off as if time were dead.



The Allied troops reached the tunnel that held the train by its long tail.
They stepped in and out; they walked in and out; they noted in detail.
“Quality coal was scarce, cheap coal was used, ” a voice sounded like curse
And the freight with its human goods stood there like a funeral hearse.



“Asphyxiation of stowaways” experts jotted down the official cause
“What could expiate the droves of souls when war hangs like curse? ”

“All are dead” captain of the Allied forces spoke like a victor.
“You survived them all, ” said the doctor.
“Nay, ” Santiago moaned,
“All are liberated; I’m the one held by the captor! ”




5/14/2015