Trains in grey sleet

In the first room

at the famous art gallery

something hit me hard

but not the exhibition shown.

A guide spoke incessantly,

abstract, interpretive and in falsetto,

well above my head.

I did not understand a thing.

Suddenly my mind cleared.

I wanted to see and hear

the exhibition directly.

Let it itself talk to me.

Went outside filled with a clear pain.

Badly affected,

strange emotions

did not recognize myself,

went to the café.

Sat down writing

to recollect.
 

Outside the gallery,

trains passed in grey sleet.

Perceived by me

as dirty and badly worn skeletons

in naked cold metal.

Undressed from previous warmth.

Within an inexplicable second

my attitudes changed.

No more love for trains

but free to love my father.

Once he worked

at the Swedish railroad head office

Before the war

grandfather was a train driver.

In respect of my sudden pain

I left the exhibition.

Remained at my center,

despite pain,

unfinished thoughts,

and broken feelings.

Could have turned

my feelings off,

using supposedly logical interpretations

about cause and effect.

I did not.