We all die in someone’s story.
They mourn our death
While we pick eggs from the store
For tomorrow’s breakfast.
They long for us,
In autumn leaves,
Winter’s frost,
Summer’s bliss
And the promises of the Spring.
Yet when we come face to face,
On either side of the railway station,
they’d look beyond us,
The melancholy in their eyes would
Search in the train that
Came past several stations of self,
For a trace of a forgotten friend.
Picture: Saudade by Jose Ferraz de Almeida Júnior, 1899.
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