at the blue hour, the waiting room
the depthless hall like somnolence

by my side, many people
take leave out of the blue, like a group of hidden
saints who just received secret orders

someone on the phone, someone ties his shoelaces
someone says goodbye (or no more)

those items and dogs
that are not permitted to take away
now pushed away by a little flatbed quadricycle

life is an illusion
an older poet told me
(he just woke from a nap)

as if on a rainy and cold platform
you carry a heavier and heavier bag
and always feel it belongs to someone else