At night the train whistle moans along the river,
speaking of lost worlds and bottomless sorrow.
I remember in my childhood bed that same cry,
thoughtless then of yesterday or tomorrow.
At night the train whistle moans along the river.
And now, old and mindful, I hear it again,
and remember those who loved me and passed on.
Those dreaded exits. How can such things happen
as in this listening, they touch me and are gone?
At night the train whistle moans along the river.