At dawn's light, the skies were lit pale, <br />On the window, the imprint of fingers, cold, <br />The high peaks, whitish-turning, stood <br />Like quicksilver, placidly still and yet, <br />Travellers slept undisturbed; <br />Only the jaded lamps' jarring sighs, <br />Even the sweet shellacky smell, <br />And so too, the vaguely tobacco-like fumes <br />Tested a sore tongue on the night train; <br />But are the complaints from the married woman to continue? <br />Yamashina has yet to pass by, <br />So she undoes the air-pillow's plug a wee, <br />To watch it vent: such are the ways of women-kind. <br />Then man and wife snuggled up a-sudden, <br />And stared out the car window by the dawn, <br />Where on a mountain village, whereabouts unknown, <br />So whitely bloomed the columbine flowers.<br /><br />Sakutaro Hagiwara<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/night-train-8/
