Artistic webzine on migration, borders, human rights
“Black dormant iron, black steel whining / a scream of sorrow through every pore.” So begins Pablo Neruda’s early poem Workshops at night, on his childhood relationship with locomotives as the son of a railwayman stationed at the ‘frontera’ of the deep Chilean south. Sometimes, a train is more than a means of transportation. Stories are imprinted across its skin like tattoos intended to be read, by those whose journeys are as textured and flawed as weathered iron horses. Photographs by Sheri L. Wright.
Black dormant iron, black steel whining
a scream of sorrow through every pore.
The ashes burnt over the sad soil,
the broth in which the bronze melted its grief.
Birds from what distant misadventured country
did caw in the painful endless night?
And the scream infuriates me like a twisted nerve
or like the broken string of a violin.
Each locomotive has an open pupil
to look at me.
On the walls do interrogations hang,
the soul of the bronze blooms in the double horned anvils
and there is a tremor of steps in the desert rooms.
And amidst the black night —in desperation—
the souls of dead workers run and weep.
Stories can be found in unexpected places, in rust and peeling paint, filtered in shadow and light where words are textured across the surface. Sheri L. Wright looks for what may be waiting for discovery in hidden places, or in plain sight.