Train Smoke, Edvard Munch (1900)
Life is like a train ride, from birth to death.
We all know our final destination,
Yet there can be solace along the way.
The train makes many stops on its journey,
For its passengers to gather postcards,
And bright stickers to place on their baggage
I see many babies coming aboard,
Held so securely, in their mothers’ arms
With no understanding of the event
At stops, relatives and friends disembark.
Some wave joyfully as the train departs,
Others trodden off, all I see are backs.
I look at my disheveled bag, and smile,
There is not anymore room for stickers,
Then I close my eyes, to see my postcards.
Awakened, I feel the train slowing down.
It makes a grinding, screeching, ugly sound.
Oh, this is my stop, I must now get off!