Train, train, heavy blue icon.
A shrill whistle rattles the landscape.
Wheels clatter against the rails.
Metal wails in sharp curves.

Once our weary heroes stood waiting on the station
with worn, brown leather suitcases in one hand
and broken hearts in the other.
Puffs of steam rose over desert, mountain and taiga.

We listen for the transition
from lonely, blue solitude
to window visions of change.

Woke up in Vladivostok, baby.
In Kobe you were already long gone.
And all the lines wound westwards.

Like Dsjengis I mounted that iron horse.

One flute player stands off to the side
of that long caravan under a starlit sky.

I'm set for St.Petersburg, baby,
the city you'll never reach.

Train, train, whether you roll
from The Pacific or New Orleans,
you tear us apart and
and join us again,
till the end of the line,
where you crash into
your very own cattle wagon.