I am the rail of rusted red
Where the heavy freight has bled
I feel her boots upon my skin
Where the salted vapors spin
She wears a name tag made of gold
While the winter air turns cold
She brings a scent of coffee brew
Mixed with morning's heavy dew
Iron root in the silver haze
Lost inside a frozen maze
Hold the line till the engines roar
Bring her back to the station door
She walks where wild clover grows
Where the hidden water flows
Like a seed in the blackened grit
Where the old coal fires are lit
Iron root in the silver haze
Lost inside a frozen maze
Hold the line till the engines roar
Bring her back to the station door
Taraxacum breaks the stone
Standing in the yard alone
Rooted deep in the diesel oil
Patient in the bitter soil
She touches steel with shaking hands
Walking through the wasteland sands
A botanist of broken glass
Watching all the seasons pass
She counts the bolts and counts the years
Drowning out the engine gears
A sudden bloom of yellow weed
Sown from one forgotten seed
Iron root in the silver haze
Lost inside a frozen maze
Hold the line till the engines roar
Bring her back to the station door
Deep in the soil. Iron root fog.
Deep in the soil.
Iron root fog.
