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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-02-15 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] | Train, train, heavy blue icon. A shrill whistle rattles the landscape. Wheels clatter against the rails. Metal wails in sharp curves. Once our weary heroes stood waiting on the station with worn, brown leather suitcases in one hand and broken hearts in the other. Puffs of steam rose over desert, mountain and taiga. We listen for the transition from lonely, blue solitude to window visions of change. Woke up in Vladivostok, baby. In Kobe you were already long gone. And all the lines wound westwards. Like Dsjengis I mounted that iron horse. One flute player stands off to the side of that long caravan under a starlit sky. I'm set for St.Petersburg, baby, the city you'll never reach. Train, train, whether you roll from The Pacific or New Orleans, you tear us apart and and join us again, till the end of the line, where you crash into your very own cattle wagon.
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