They pass by.


There goes one, and another,

They pass by: many an hour,

Never stopping nor waiting,

In a rush, always running.


Some stand tall and proud,

As if rising to the clouds,

Others small and round

Anchored deep in the ground.


Squared, circles or triangles,

Come in all angles,

Wooden, metal or in stone,

Made of all but bone.


Each is unique but the same,

Existing without a name,

Though without them we’d be lost

And our trains would be but ghosts.


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