The Song of The Station
Giorgio de Chirico, 1912
Little station, little station, what happiness I owe you. You look around, to left, and right, also behind you. Your flags snap distractedly, why suffer; let us go in, aren't we already numerous enough? With white chalk or black coal let us trace happiness and its enigma, the enigma and its affirmation. Beneath porticoes are windows, from each window an eye looks at us, and from the depths voices call to us. The happiness of the station comes to us, and goes from us transfigured. Little station, little station, you are a divine toy. What distraught Zeus forgot you on this square-geometric and yellow-near this limpid, disturbing fountain? All your little flags crackle together under the intoxication of the luminous sky. Behind walls life proceeds like a catastrophe. What does it all matter to you? Little station, little station, what happiness I owe you.
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