It's the light of the oncoming train.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.
We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.
We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.
The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.
In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.