He sits in the underground train,
feeling it rumble under
and around him,
as it speeds on electric metal rails,
moving south.

He holds on tightly to his quena and his zampona,

and he looks
out the window

during the intervals when the train comes out of the depths
and the city spreads out before him
like a blanket of light, movement and structure.

He can see hill after hill covered in little houses, all alike.

So different, so strange,
so unlike the mountains,

so devoid of the open expanse of the snow covered peaks

and the moist heat
of the jungles beyond.

And yet he is here,

the bell has rung,

and he knows he is

on the right train

at the right time.

The clear decision
made on a warm afternoon

reaches even here,

where he sits quietly,

watching the strange landscape speed by.

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