This train rode only at night
It had no windows and it had no doors
It had no load but the dreams of passangers
it never carried in it darkened hull
Its cargo laden with the absent bodies
of the travellers it never held.

This train bore no speed and no direction
conveyed no desire but that of indiference
This train was hitched to nothing but itself
and carried onwards through night’s thick shadows
for no more reason than the rails were there
and no more conscience than the rails themselves.

This was not a train of meaning or destiny
It was a train of accident, mere chance
This train just happened and will happen again,
and every time it will not mean a thing.
On every time its nightly darkened shadow
will seem to us a message or a curse

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