I watch the trees in a blur
as the train moves on, and the regular
rhythm of the electricity poles.
I drum the fingers on my knees
by the window, humming, mouth closed,
his new song I've just heard at home.
From a new album, once more.
I am not young, once
I never thought about getting old,
about the span of my passing.
In these days the fog is constant,
it stubbornly swaddles the stones,
I keep humming, at one with its persistence,
with on this side the same ongoing
riddle of landscape's stare
and I cannot say I am not glad
I've come this far,
written October 27th 2006
after listening to Modern Times by Bob Dylan
words: Davide Trame, Italy
photo: Steve Wing, Florida (sand shadow)