The sun was an elevator in pink clouds;
it was that kind of sunset. A commute in April, when the prank
was great art seen for a couple of minutes by me alone
due to boredom and my unreceptive phone.
The window of my train drew along with it the west
which displayed heaven falling toward its silent and distant rest.
I would take that journey again, otherwise dull,
and buy what I saw moving away,
over the brown marshes,
flushed sea clouds dying like a day within a day.
The rarity of a scene makes poet and philosopher wonder:
Is everything truly beautiful also rare?
in sun, or distance, or the vaporous air,
so not everyone can have this, not everyone can be,
pitiful inside a stare, yet fortunate, like me?