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The whistle of the evening train
two giant puffs of snow-white steam
so reminiscent of the Chinese Dragon,
accelerating through the melancholy of
spindly paddy grass, so tall and yet so thin.
Year of the dog it is and all the creatures know;
a sense of loss and painful sadness now descends.
From piercing sounds a startled echo turns to light,
transforming night into the brightness of the day.
No moonlight is allowed to shine, no grinning cheese,
no solitary dog to vent its wild and hungry spleen,
but God has seen the saddened faces on his earth
sent sweetened harpsichords and violins and flutes,
to stop the weeping for all diesel trains and death
Herbert Nehrlich
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