Valzhyna Mort - Nocturne for a Moving Train

The trees I’ve glimpsed from the window
of a night train were
the saddest trees.

They seemed about to speak,
then –
             vanished like soldiers.

The hostesses handed out starched linens for sleep.
Passengers bent over small icons
of sandwiches.

In a tall glass, a spoon mixed sugar into coffee
banging its silver face against the facets.

The window reflected back a figure
struggling with white sheets.

The posts with names of towns promised
a possibility of words
for what flew by.

In lit-up windows p...