58 Was I the train when racing with nights rough from rust, Trembling through wind and rumbling with ribs in a rush? Was I the train when grinding my teeth at the rails, Shaking my metal children in cradles of rain? Was I the train you wanted but could not get on -- Train that could run you over with leaves in the Fall? Now I'm the drop of rain on the listening leaf, Caught by a standstill, wanting the gust of the wind.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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