Train to Ostrava

what doesn’t and what does
echoe in these sandstone arms
these old art noveau fasades

are they bending down
to kiss us bon voyage
or maybe they belong
to the gypsies.. these stones
so stubbornly questioning
their own making – no flesh and bones
they have – just a perfect amalgam
of the crystal pure and the filthiest dirt
forever undecided in each brain of sand

they know,
that’s why they kiss you

they know it is hard
to be carved out from the mist
in the morning and ride
like a concrete bliss
over forests and fields

they know how it feels
to fall apart and rise like the peasants,
their miniature houses each time
on the neither side of the border
again and again in the eye of beholder –
the silent silesian bird

they know
that’s why they kiss the train