We watch the world slide by
through these dirty windows…
holding hands, not thinking
outside this compartment,
willing the trees and flowers
to be just a monochrome
kaleidoscope with no consequence
Our thoughts stay inside these dirty windows.
We hold hands, our palms sweating,
but we do not let go…
the sun does not reach here
We will not be apart inside this compartment,
trapped in this merry-go-round of hopes and
dreams
of a life
outside the dirty windows
This poem is thrilling and striking. It's as if we are living in cocoons and are locked to our own lifes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I've seen this Turner's picture again after some years and not of oblivion.