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Daniel Medvedov


2010 / 2015



I'm like a locomotive: carry cars, wagons, for I can not say "I carry the train" - I am
myself part of the "train". My wagons are attached, there is a mutual proximity between
them and each can move freely of each other. There is also a wagon - restaurant, and one
for the baggage and correspondence.
All I do is pull. I do not think in the rails, or wagons. I am only interested in those who
are traveling with me. Of course, I am stopping at stations in precise and agreed times. If
there is delay, sorry: it is natural. There are many extenuating circumstances, many
Our destiny is plotted as the railway. There are rails that designate the route and many
choose another route. How unfortunate! Best would go with that wonderful steam
The stations are, in fact, stay. Islands where we were a while, places, sites where we
settled for a while, and then, again, we hope the train is entering station at Termini, as the
Italians say.
The locomotive goes forward, but can also go back. It has not changed much from when
it was invented. Even if it is electric and bionics, it is the same.
In Japan, I remember seeing on the way from Tokyo to Kyoto, for long periods, the
silhouette of Fuji-Yama, accompanying us on the distant horizon.
So am I: but I stop at all stations. There are classes, levels, hyerarchy, of course, but all
traveling at the same speed. Who cares if I'm in the second, or third, or first? You all
arrive at the same time!
From the window, the nearby landscape glides smoothly, running in the opposite
direction and is fixed far as stuck on the horizon.
It's good to be locomotive.
You control the way, the windshield allows you to see clearly where you are going and
the driver can sense danger before on the road. You have to be familiar with the signs.
Every detail is a sign and has different meanings. But the direction of travel is unique,
you can not change. This is the meaning of things, too: it is a direction, a direction.
The stations are usually large or small. It does not matter. A train staff, unlike the
"accelerated", stops at all stations. This is a category, but the profound value is the same.
At the time of this writing, I have composed the following limerick:

There was a man on a train

Locomotive made just for a rhyme
They were waiting on the platform
And all the wagons arrived in time

The Wound-Dresser
An old man bending I come among new faces,
Years looking backward resuming in answer to children,
Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me,
(Arousd and angry, Id thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war,
But soon my fingers faild me, my face droopd and I resignd myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;)
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpassd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;)
Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth,
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?
2 [] To be continued . . .
These lines (italicized) were written by Walt Whitman, the poet who accompanied many
hours comforting the wounded in military hospitals in the American Civil War. It is his
testimony. . .
(Walt Whitman "The Wound Healer" Leaves of Grass, Emory Holloway, Garden City,
NY, Doubleday & Comp., 1954, p. 20)
N. B.
Still, here, one of my testimony. . .

Taking words, silence and hope,

Right and lightweight, to my wounded I go,
where they lie on the ground, during the battle,
Where his precious blood stains hours and days,
A row of bloody flag of confessions,
In the quiet room and lonely city,
Near and far, long lines of questions. . .
Towards everywhere I turn,
To each and everyone I attend and answer,
A one after another I approach,
Nobody forgot. . .
An assistant follows me, holding to avoid falling and carrying holy books,
It keeps a gap for waste,

Abyss never be filled with lumpy rags and blood, nor of so many sorrows and
And there needs to be emptied,
It is the same abyss. . .
This replica of Walt Whitman poem is my testimony in memory of Doctor Paracelsus. .