We are approaching our last stop

A traveler on the bus says there is no radio

Nor the morning newspapers, nor the castles on the hills

I want to cry

The driver says: Wait to reach the station

And cry alone as much as you can

A woman says: Me too

I don't like anything

I laid my son on my grave

He liked it and fell asleep without saying goodbye to me

I studied archeology without that

I find identity in stones, is it really me?

A soldier says: Me too

I don't like anything

I am always surrounded by a ghost that surrounds me

The nervous driver says: Here we are approaching our last stop

They prepared to get off and shouted: We want what is beyond the station

So go, but I say: Put me down

Here I am like them, nothing I like

But I'm tired of travelling