Without memory or name those poor men walk in the twilight of their lives, already longing for their departure.
They see their days spent stranded on the platforms, they have thrown themselves on the tracks but trains no longer pass.
They no longer feel hate or love, they have lost their hearts in their chest there is an engine that works for no reason.
And every day they calmly think to break the stained glass window of their souls, cut that red thread from their fingers and knot it around their necks.
That ravine whispers to them to fly away from the past, their lives are blank canvases that were never painted.
But they can't paint the end point yet. They ignore that what moves mountains is not faith, but the scythe.
