It’s late but not quite time yet
For the dark to dim the brain
My time has run for e’er so long
I await the start of the train. If there is a train at all
And places within for man
I hope to have a window seat
To see as much as I can. For there’s the age-old question mark
Are these made-up stories real?
And is there really a reward for us
Who follow those with zeal? Or is the end a void
Scraps of life—that sort of thing?
A shirt, some shoes, a Sunday suit
And, to show my troth, a ring.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.