Tunnelling through the night, the trains passin a splendour of power, with a sound like thundershaking the orchards, wakingthe young from a dream, scattering like glassthe old mens' sleep, layinga black trail over the still bloom of the orchards;the trains go north with guns.
Strange primitive piece of flesh, the heart laid quiethearing their cry pierce through its thin-walled caverecalls the forgotten tiger,and leaps awake in its old panic riot;and how shall mind be sober,since blood's red thread still binds us fast in history?
Tiger, you walk through all our past and future,troubling the children's sleep'; layinga reeking trail across our dreams of orchards.
Racing on iron errands, the trains go by,and over the white acres of our orchardshurl their wild summoning cry, their animal cry….the trains go north with guns.
