Ana Brnardić - FLATLANDS

Passengers sit carefully
on the fake leather benches taking off their coats
in colours of blueberry and dry grass
The train stumbles into the night like a blind shepherd

Darkness swiftly invades the compartment from
all corners feeding itself on our listlessness
Soon – in half an hour – we will all glue our faces
to the window panes
overtaken by some strange belief
that through that anonymous forrest,
following our desires and sentiments,
roe deer, birds and other creatures awoken
from the trees run alongside our train

Upon the conductor’s signal, exhausted by this phantom race
our heads sink into sleep

The soft and black flatlands
bear bumps budding with electric cities
of the night.