The trees were as if, world. Just seen and seen forest in every direction of eye, mind and belief. This time of year, fall, the blend of it began, became a new lover to each and every shade. I changing of dress-color to complete delight. Natures statement of showing any living artist ,that, you know nothing….And in this realm of orange, brown,of yellow’s dying and mixed green…. Was a line drawn, imprinted into rock and mud. A corridor going and going as if any living thing traveling along it, surely must perish. And the growth that walled this corridor, stood as a high alignment as if parted sea.
A forever line of wood and steel. A creation by mans’ sweat, grunts, birth and death. The hundreds and hundreds of lives that are born yet meant to be throw away. The short lives of the poor. Yes, the poor who built the track. A repeat of set and set of beam; the straight of the iron after iron, again and again. Year after year until one end of the Tsar’s empire connected with the other end of Russia. And upon the track. The train. Mostly a movement of horror. Moving the condemned far far from any dwelling of warmth, of human touch or care…. For, they, will never smile again.
No one knows how he got there. The man I mean. Not old nor young. Just a man of some age. There, sitting on the rail. Just he alone, alone with the vastness of trees before and behind him. Yes, he sits…. Hair long and dark, dirty, tangled from life’s misery and all prepared by the assault of seasons. Broken work boots, toes sticking out, feeling leather feeling ground. Layers of clothes, a tarp of animal skin for covering, and the smell.
As he sits, he stares down at the small space before him…. Maybe he fell from a train. Maybe thrown. Or maybe walked to world’s end; just to join the beat of his heart….He does not move, will not. For he has come to an abyss state of mind . A total cleansing of the lowest, blissness of thought. For the days that he sat. He heard sounds of deep night and bright day. Where wind came down the endless track and swirled up his nose, down down to the well of lung. Where passing creature small and large took the time to voice hate. Yes, he is in his portioned dark-heaven on condemned earth. And wishes to wish of no more.
His right hand finally moves, enters cloth upon him; ignoring bits of food, ignoring pouch of drink…. The hand gently comes out with a worn photo. A girl, a lovely girl. He moves more, places the photo up against the other rail across from him; uses a small stone to brace….After the movement he goes back to how he sat…. Sits and stares at her with memory’s look .His mind then creates, making his lips move ,formed in silence; for he counts each and every drop of sweat upon her from his love.Love he and she made upon a bed of straw. Where next to them upon wooden crate , a chunk of bread , a tin of wine .His mind adds moon light through patched opening, giving little glow, aah,but made her blush. To kiss ,touch and thrust as if each exhausting minute was pleasing death ,there, on peasant’s inherited earth.The love of the poor and simply no more.
Maybe it was the next night or the one after. When an evil gust blew. Taking up the photo beneath immense stars, stealing it away and away…..Then, he stood, breathed a deep, silent cursed at and for the very center of all humanity….
Alas…. He walks for forest. He is singled out from all man. Where every poem ever written of and for loneliness; can not express he…. Going, his eyes reveal suffering, the ancient telling of it, which can only be found on cave walls. Yet, there, just there in his look, is an ageless understanding of what he’s become. Become but deep, self-strange and at peace unto all with in himself.
Once within great foliage…. he is engulfed….And only God hears the press of his feet.. upon.. the..pine.
By George Martorano