Shuffling down the tracks, listening to that train whist-
ling tunes of my loneliness, touching the interior sorrow
that sings along through the night.
Sounding out loud through many towns and empty arid deserts
and hearts, being attuned to shadows of rhythms as I con-
tinue to walk down those lonely steel tracks in my mind.
Interiorly living the life of a hobo with no where to go,
laying my head upon stacks of wood left over from it's
days of construction.
Dreaming dreams of riding within the cars, dining through
the countryside while listening still to that lonely train
whistle I've learned to love through the years.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem