The Nomad Station

The rain is gone.
The trains are gone.
The passengers are gone,
even
the station is gone,
and the paints.

-When people leave
they always take the colours with them
though the canvas remains.-

The only things that withstand the onslaught of space
are the sediments of eyes,
the waiting eyes,
vagabond,
yet never left,
never been delivered,

in the nomad station,
the destitute station,
on the railway
of time.