I never curse the petrified forests,
frozen stumps,
little gravestones across badlands,
left over.
The air drifting down slowly
from Colorado frost
whispers to me
in a language I've forgotten.
I never visit the old factory skeletons,
barren husks,
smokestacks in hollowed Prussia
empty now.
The ash like a lilting melody
caught in the wind
worlds of me
in the Old Country I've left.
The train runs in time,
and the trail of steam,
thinning up through chimney chute,
blackening the rail below,
stays with me always.
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