Poetry / archive
Of racing trains and silent hills.
Through the evening airs comes a train’s sound,
Leaving echoes in the silent hills to resound.
Rushing through the green grass and brush,
The train heads west in a mad rush.
From down the path tinkles many a bell,
The goatherd and his goats halt by a well.
The red sun sets into the misty west,
As the madly racing train draws abreast.
Singing clear comes a farmer with his oxen,
Below the stony crags, in the sunset, frozen.
Brilliant, the evening star rises, high above the rest,
Dark sentinels, the hills stand silhouetted in the west.
Bats fly east into the dark gloaming,
Through the shadows cuts the train, roaring.
In the moonrise stands a rocky crest, bright,
Stars one by one, fill the darkness with their light.
Through the night airs comes the train’s sound,
Leaving echoes in the silent hills to resound.
Rushing through the dark grass and brush,
The train heads west in a mad rush.