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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