Sadder than a train standing in the rain

Here's a poem by Nazim Hikmet, if you haven't read:

I stand in the advancing light,
my hands hungry, the world beautiful.

My eyes can't get enough of the trees—
they're so hopeful, so green.

A sunny road runs through the mulberries,
I'm at the window of the prison infirmary.

I can't smell the medicines—
carnations must be blooming nearby.

It's this way:
being captured is beside the point,
the point is not to surrender.
(It's this Way)

"Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?" Neruda had asked...

Wallowing in a exaggerated self-dejection, I wondered whether i could think of an answer... now, i think i know...the saddest thing in the world is a poem melting away in some corner of your mind and returning like a dust-spattered happy child from play, oblivious to the world... but there are some other questions as well...

—Why do leaves commit suicide when they feel yellow?
—How many bees are there in a day?
—Is the sun the same as yesterdays or is this fire different from that fire?
—What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
—Why does the earth grievewhen the violets appear?
—How does the abandoned bicycle win its freedom?
—How does rumour of the sky smellwhen the blue of water sings?
—Is it true that sadness is thick and melancholy thin?
—And why is the sun so congenial in the hospital garden?

:( no one knows but the Book of Questions!