There was a time
when we all
waited by the tracks
to watch the trains
come through,
bringing new faces.
Those who had nowhere to go
chose to be there
to wave to those
they did not know,
those myriad travellers
going to other places.
There was so much
expectation
as the whistle drew
in quick gasps of steam
and wheels slipped
slipped before
they finally gripped.
But that was before
the large highway swept past
and trains
no longer came
and the station ceased to bear
the town’s proud name
and the mystery
of journeys on polished rails
grew dull
as expectation in
once eager hearts.
The station building now
is overgrown: shrubs
amongst the trees, vines, and grass
where children play:
but no one there waves
to strangers (other
than themselves)
in magical trains going past.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice nostalgicl poem!
Thank you for your kind words, Liza!