Six silver strings,

Thick black fingers with pink nails, pull and hammer them into sound

A mournful cry of lonely nothing tearful dreamscape,

An eternal cry of the trains,

Don’t ya hear me calling pretty baby?

In a chord of loss,

In a beat of desolation,

So alone.

Six silver strings reflecting moonlight,

Reflecting heart,

Reflecting soul,

The sands drain away.

Driving rhythm as restless as the beat of life,

Of the never ceasing journey,

So alone.

The camera zooms in on the fret board where thick fingers engulf the silver strings,

Hard with work and toil,

And seem to shake,

But produce the most perfect blend of notes,

The wail of lost love.

And then a lined face,

And words floating out with hardly a movement,

Don’t you hear me calling pretty baby?

Oh, don’t you hear me calling?

It cannot be more clear,

She’s so far away,

As vital as each tender breath of air,

As the flash of white teeth,

Shining in the moonlight like pearls,

A smile like he knows you feel it too.

So far away,

And the eternal cry of the trains is all that echoes in each night,

Still he smiles.

Hollowness, where sound resonates,

Where sound can heal all our misfortunate souls.

We are together in our loneliness, in our tears, and in our prayers.

Later I sit back on my bed, clutching my guitar,

Eyes closed, 

 Trying to recreate the sound,

By imagining I have thick black fingers,

with flesh pink nails.

1998