Most seats are empty on the Sunday train.
The sun´s still shining, but there´s gonna be rain.
The wind drives the leaves like a charioteer's whip.
And I feel too weak to be making this trip,
And I know I’m too broke to afford the return fare.
The people around me hide behind books,
Or crossword puzzles, or countryside looks.
And the mountains outside have faces of stone.
And since no one will speak, I prefer being alone.
And the clouds start to come, but I don´t care.

I´m riding down to the Mediterranean Blue,
Where the winters are mild, if what I hear is true.
And the Alps outside are just drifting by,
And look like withered faces gazing at the sky.

There’s friends hugging friends on the platform outside,
But who waits for me at the end of my ride?
My finger writes a name on the window pane,
Another person I won´t see on this train.
And I´m feeling too sick to be making this trip.
Steeples and mountaintops still point the way
With cold eyes of stone that will not look away.
But winters are mild, and the cold days are few,
Way down by the Mediterranean Blue
Where I´ll stare all day long at the sea and the ships.

I’m riding down...

I guess the Alps aren´t something you just let roll by,
But winter comes early when you’re close to the sky
Now sunlit sycamores and the olive hue
Wait for me by the Mediterranean Blue.

-Marco Klaue, ©2002

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