The headlamps of the train pierce the night
in the middle of a sultry summer,
at a hundred kilometers an hour:
flee away the stroboscopic lights
of the lit windows, well mixed with
lightnings and various humanity,
women, men, old guys and children,
all asleep, except a few faces
of suffering souls, in the Purgatory
of the vain research of a redemption,
in the landscape drowned in the night,
dark and vampire of things' outlines.
all that remains for you is only
the hammering of the convoy that flees
as sppedy as the wind, and of its lights
which make fun of you, who watch them fade.