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Eastward from Ashkhabad my train lumbered across a region of oases where rivers dropped out of Iran to die in the Turcoman desert. In one window the Kopet Dagh mountains lurched darkly out of haze, and repeated themselves in thinning colours far into the sky. Beyond the other rolled a grey-green savannah, gashed with poppies. Over this immensity the sky curved like a frescoed ceiling, where flotillas of white and grey clouds floated on separate winds. 我乘坐的列车由阿什哈巴德驶出，一路向东，在土库曼沙漠中的绿洲地区中缓慢行驶，源自伊朗的数条河流便在这里汇集。透过一扇车窗，可以看到考匹特塔克山脉在黑色的迷雾中蜿蜒前行，若隐若现，其颜色随着山势的增高而变得模糊起来。另一扇车窗中，灰绿色草原绵延不绝，四处是凌乱的罂粟。天空在无垠的大地上盘旋曲折，仿佛是一个刻有壁画的天花板，密集的白云和灰云在空中随着阵风飘移。 Once or twice under the foothills I glimpsed the mound of a kurgan, broken open like the lips of a volcano – the burial-place of a tribal chief, perhaps, or the milestone of some lost nomad advance. Along this narrow littoral, a century ago, the Tekke Turcomans had grazed their camels and tough Argamak horses, and tilled the soil around forty-three earthen fortresses. Now the Karakum canal ran down from the Oxus through villages with old, despairing names such as "Dead-End" and "Cursed-by-God", and fed collective farms of wheat and cotton. | 
