She was there,

Alone,

Among hundreds of people

Unhappy

And heartbroken,

But no one saw her.

Her clothes were old,

And her hair was unwashed.

I noticed it, of course,

When I was looking at her dead body.

Maybe she was fifty years old.

Fifty winters,

Fifty cold years,

Fifty years of loneliness—

The choice of death at the age of fifty

Couldn’t have been easy

Or without reason.

The train rushed in.

I saw its light,

And I heard it rush into the station.

She suddenly jumped down,

And lay down on the rail,

With her head towards the train.

With my scream I burst into tears,

And I saw others cry.

I cried very much a while.

The choice of death,

Such a death

At the age of fifty—

Why?