The Border Crossing

         

Time wears tracks

in the mural on the station wall: 

freezes the taiga,

burns the olive tree,

withers the wheat,

lines the worker’s face,

 

erases the slogan

...star...scythe... stone...

 

A seed of smoke

blossoms on the track

the train has left,

 

scatters through the iron gate

and sows the world.

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