All night beneath my sleep the clatter of cars
Swinging on the tracks, steady.
South, all night.
Overhead, white winter stars.
Unconstrained, the locomotive wails
At the little district crossings.
South, south. The iced rose of morning.
The perpetual sadness of long journeys alone.
The desolate brick villages. The frozen ground.
Dirt roads lined with skeletal poplars.
The earth bare and thwarted.
The disappointment of journeys we've longed for
Wherever we're going.
And at the last crowded station, no one waiting,
No one left who knows me any more.