The sun was hot iron to the eye
The moon was veiled come the impervious night
The lone howl of a lone coyote cried
The group of men huddled closer to their cackling fire
The axles broke in waves that slowed progress
The men they died as if in plagued by Black Death
The laughing wind and storm hampered their path
The men still went in suicidal conquest
The groaning grew to be an iron horse
The men as fast as cold molasses rode
The sun went up and down across the sky
The symbol seen displaying passing time
The emptiness whispered haunting tales
The hope revered was replaced with despair
The oxen quailed and fell to finally see
The stories of the millions of deceased
(Published in Print in 'DeSSerted Island: Poem Collection' - 2014)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem