Ticket in Her Pocket

Slow train to Russia,

the ticket is in her pocket.

Ballerina life,

on tip of toes,

passing days.

For how much longer?

She doesn’t care.

The ticket is in her pocket,

theirs, mine.

She doesn’t care,

Her master never left her behind,


He actually shows her the way,




The day will come 

and a dog will bite her ankles,

yours, mine.

The ticket is in her pocket.

Why does he insist in visiting her dreams?

Never stopping surprising her,

listening to her,

smiling at her,

and in love again she awakes.

Has that ever happened to you?

The ticket is in her pocket,

return tickets never sell,

one way only,

that makes her smile.

Slow train to Russia,

all thoughts packed up

in her super light bag

endless landscapes crammed inside,

technicolor memories

and no need to get off.