IN THE TRAIN WINDOW Poem by Israel Pincas

It was someone else
in the window of the train to Ashford or Hastings,
a man in gray, I saw
only half his face
and I thought it was someone I knew
years ago and couldn't recall.

Afterwards I had other thoughts, the sun was in
my eyes
and there were a few sheep in the meadow
on the right, and they seemed too pleased and not doubtful
like me, and continued to chew
the grass, until they also disappeared in the end.

These and other things banished the gray man from my heart.
His contours remained stamped in the dark chamber of my thoughts.
On the other hand, I recall a painter friend of mine
said that what we can do is copy
nature, approach it as closely as possible and not ask
for more.

Then I was very interested in his remarks.
I still think about them sometimes.
At the same time I think it's worth emphasizing
that art was under discussion.