The rails stretch out, breathe life into these western plains,
slope and curve, roll-iron bend, river, plank, wood, and will.
This load cuts the mountains in two, wakes the sleepy
towns that line up along this route, the farmer standing tall.
Up on these wrought rails, it is all we can do to try and hear
the throated voices of great men who plunged hammers
in the dark night after night, who gleamed with sweat and gave
the brightest stars in the universe something to behold.
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