Stations Passing By

The stations are past. Shadows in the corners.
Faces in glass dissolve quickly.
Night rises in strange places
From the dirty floor of an impressionist.

Someone will get drunk in the next carriage,
Someone is silent, as if they know the ending.
The city lies on a cold palm,
Like a glass we haven't finished drinking.

And the rails sing
Like thin steel.
We don't hurt anymore -
We are no longer sorry.

On every window
Someone's life without a face.
We're rushing forward
We play from the end.

The stations are past. Shadows in the corners.
The light cuts the night into empty carriages.
We are lost in foreign cities,
Where even love speaks according to the law.

The stations are past. Cold in my hands.
Blood on the lips and neon on the eyelashes.
If we meet in someone's dreams -
We are identified by our black eye sockets.

In every tunnel there is a short eternity,
In every silence there is someone's order.
You said: “Carelessness saves.”
I answered: “life is no longer about us.”

We traded heat for routes
Tenderness is based on faith, and faith is based on smoke.
These last minutes in life
They have become someone else's winter schedule.

Somewhere above us the overpasses are humming,
Advertising is crying - a forgotten platform.
We should leave, like the parades leave,
The bottom turned out to be just a subway.

Don't trust the wires if they whisper: "home."
Don't trust the lanterns - they are tired too.
All that remains of us underground is
This is breathing in dead metal.

The stations are past. Shadows in the corners.
The night closes the carriages behind us.
We dissolve in dull eyes
Like two laws prohibited by each other.

The stations are past. Don't sleep anymore.
Let this line be the last.
If war is a form of love
There is nothing more frank on earth.