The night train carrying sorrowful him
is running through strange winter towns
and is going through withered downs.
In this early morn at a country station
He walked the platform bosoming a Boston-
bag, murmuring, counting paving stones,
having fits of coughing for used desperation.
Some would tell him, 'It's because of young',
Whatever meant encouraging or bantering,
Or one's self-scorn?
'Sure I'm seventeen' he said, and dumped
the blunt word which couldn't even ruin him.
'Keep Out!'
'Don't Enter with Shoues on Me!'
He put up notice boards on the front gate
of his mind, but couldn't cast his empty bag.
He had nowhere to go though,
passed through several pitch-darkness.
The day dawns, it comes again.
Sky lies its gigantic figure down over him,
neverthless it doesn't grant his love token.
To love, to know the world and
his intention of running up to the sky
are the same to him, and
are inseparable from each other!
So every eary morn he is in a train
going on a sorrowful journey about winter town.