Trains pass by like hurried strangers shattering their way through the silence echoing on the face of this mountain a reminder of the lifeblood drained from the mines empty and solemn, tombs without resurrection. The cars cloaked with the symbols of restless adolescence in other places passing on their way beyond here, flickering like movies on an old reel, red rust and yellow characters flashing before us who haunt this corridor, empty of meaning. They tell tales of lost men and we understand. We are generations invisible on our own soil drowning in decisions of those who live afar and tell us who we aren’t. And over the miles a dozen times a day we signal to each other the horrors of loss the affliction of alienation abandonment and no escape, frustration that fills us with righteous rage.
Outstanding, Rae. Great work.
That's a lovely story.