M. Rephun (c)2008

Riding the freight-train into the Blue city
The buildings shine like a cigar-box in the morning
Like a tower of bricks made by children
The man on the roof blows his horn
And the notes hang in the air, like a bat trapped in amber
Like a colored streamer that wends its way among the crowd

The child in the boxcar and the hobos lift their eyes
The mass has stopped its convulsions
But we can see their faces
Black, and white, and fiery as the sun

The notes are moving, they've a mind of their own
They are weaving a skirt for a girl
They are making a bed for the homeless drifters
They make the leaves red, they make the people move

And the people are behind us as we leave
They are standing again like stone
Hey, mister, don't stop the car
I want to keep moving through the city