We will meet again, Somewhere south of here, Where I once planted my grain And thought of the warm summer months ahead. There is something that draws near As the wind turns the vane, Like a distant memory born In the things I wished I had said To those I could see in dreams but could not hear. I wince at the pain, Thrashing my limbs, Like the stalks of corn I marched through when the sky was red. There is nothing I hold so dear, As a few more hours before the rain Bursts from the clouds overhead, And forces me to leave these fields wet with dreams Of all the years I have missed Going, never coming, on some lonely train.