let it be someone good
who would come to us and say:
it is not scary to live… life – in short –
is not a road but a station

the place where we bummed
between women between columns
half dead music
in loudspeaker
stuck

but time! time
rushes headlong
to the whistle-stop forgotten by everyone
there is only one majestic

monument under the sheets
either it was not uncovered yet
or captured by a cloud
of snow took behind the clouds

and moonlit platforms
beside its plinth
are so deserted so spacious
lying so for no one

that a chilled guardian
under a shameful lamp
will be found as a bribe
given to us in secret