To the Hill, Near the Lunatic Express
You, Hill,
Swallower
Of the stillborn
Watered by tears of mourning.
You lay silent as the babies
Inside of you,
Who never cried.
A stones throw from the old railroad bed
The Lunatic Express
Lethal project that consumed
2500 laborers,
Famed for man-eating-lions
But remembers not man-eating-man
On the perilous journey west.
You, Hill
Your backbone is human
But your heart is dirt
Your eyes are closed
To the majesty before you
And the dreams that died
On your crest.
Even the crosses that adorned you
Have crumbled.
Today I resurrect the memories,
Speak what has been
And could be forgotten.
I use the voice you do not have,
I say, all this happened here,
On you, hill.
What it will cost no words can express,
What is its object no brain can suppose,
Where it will start from no one can guess,
Where it is going to nobody knows,
What is the use of it, none can conjecture,
What it will carry, there is none can define,
And in spite of George Curzon’s superior lecture,
It is clearly naught but a lunatic line.
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