So many empty stations on the El
Forgotten and grown over by the years,
Imbued with a distinctive musty smell,
Of ancient blood and oil, sweat and tears
Spent to establish what is now a waste,
A monument to days no longer known,
To times whose memory has been erased,
And hopes now like the stations overgrown.
They crumble statelily and wash away
Until their concrete melts into the dust,
A dying emblem of a yesterday
Borne out of sight by every little gust
Of famous wind. Each day we pass them by
And do not watch them wither, crack, and die.
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