The train hums low through a land at rest,
its breath a steady lull,
soft as a hymn on Sunday morning.
A child, round-eyed and leaning near the glass,
does not yet know the name
of the place she’s going,
but she sees mountains rise
under an expanding blue sky.
It is her first glimpse—
and oh, how wide the world becomes.
A dancer rides with a heart that beats in rhythm.
She clutches her ticket like a promise.
Tonight, she will see the ballet.
Tomorrow, she will imagine herself on the stage,
spinning in the hush of a crowd held breathless.
A girl with a voice made for lullabies
rides to the opera.
She doesn’t sing yet—
not out loud.
But she listens.
And somewhere in the swell of strings,
the curtain will lift on her courage.
A song of her own will wait
on the other side.
An artist sketches trees that blur like dreams,
green flashes against a golden dusk.
She paints not what she sees,
but what she feels in the motion,
the passing.
An old couple shares the same page,
turning it slowly,
as if time were theirs to hold.
A toddler laughs in her own world,
storybook bright in her lap.
And a young man
sips his coffee like it’s jazz—
slow, warm,
full of maybe.
In peace, every mile forward is a promise.
But in war—
as in all things—
the train must change its name.
The dancer, now barefoot,
rides with nothing but a suitcase
and a letter she cannot bear to read.
Her dreams packed in haste.
The singer leaves her sheet music behind,
a home abandoned in a single breath.
There is no aria to carry her now,
only silence.
She will not sing those songs again.
The artist holds her newborn tight,
returning to a town dimmed by absence.
Her husband is gone, sent across the sea.
The child will grow in photographs and prayers,
learning his father through letters,
if they come.
The old couple no longer sits together.
One reads alone.
One is only memory.
The toddler clings now,
not to her storybook,
but to her mother’s hand.
And the young man—
no longer dreaming,
no longer sipping—
boards a different train.
His hands grip steel.
His heart beats fast.
He goes not to arrival,
but to duty.
Still, the train runs.
Still, the wheels turn.
But the sound—
oh, the sound is heavier now,
bearing the weight of what might not return.