I can hear this train calling me from my bed
I'll tell you what he said
I can relieve all your idleness and pain
If you paint my tracks in red
I know you're fed up
Your cup is half empty... not filled
Blaming everyone for what spilled
Ashamed of what needs to be killed
Now here's your chance
I know your beat down, tired, and worn
Follow my horn, and when we meet
The weary flower will have no thorns
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good poem, liked it lots.