The train just keeps on running,
mile after weary mile;
the ghosts of tortured souls,
still linger on the rails.
Closer and closer to the factory,
the colossal death machine;
on and on the horror rolls,
the brakes have worn away.
The screams have all subsided,
but the echo never stops.
The treasury of life is robbed;
we can never know the cost.
O weep for us all, the silent ones;
who let the train roll by without a word.
We all were dumb,
and never raised a cry.
Too late for them,
but not for us.
Will we let the wicked thorn
grow deep,
or nip it in the bud?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem