Once, the very height of splendor,
Wonder of the modern age,
Now forgotten, rack and ruin,
Wood and iron, rot and rust.
Once, tomorrow seemed like singing,
Hammers rang and voices sang:
Now the wind is keening softly,
Echoed in the swirls of dust.
Now, the day is dying ghostly,
Clouds above the fields, a frame —
Once, these tracks could reach tomorrow,
But tomorrow never