We heard the hoots' becrowing words
foreboding of our steadfast grief;
they fled to dusk - two mourning birds
life's borderlines and false beliefs.
Two birds have passed, in gray and black,
straight arrows fled to vanish yon
our longest trip on the railway track,
bemocking company and gone.
Upon our train have sat the birds,
the passengers won't go to stars
and neither will their versing words,
that rhyme with unforgiven mars.
Unmoved the riders in the cars,
suspended is the pilot's gaze,
the rails become two iron bars,
and death's advancing mauve bouquets.
The heads advert the engine's chug
like dancing poppies in the breeze,
and none among us will debug
why are we Charon's invitees.
Black engine draws upon the rails;
the pilot, coolly, searches fore
subsequent the foggy veils,
our caravan of wagons, wore.
The souls imprisoned trail along
the pilot engine's wordless rites,
and wait through nothingness and wrongs,
the train to reach uncounted heights.
