A Train to Ambiguity

I can hear the train’s whistle,
Blowing like a shrill trumpet,
Played by an excited
And giddy youngling,
And people board the train,
Heading for a universal destination
Yet scattered through the world
To which the train starts,
Slowly turning its wheels,
Axles grinding, gears squealing,
Until, as the train passes from my view,
Its whistle mellows in pitch, becoming
A smooth note drawn on a virtuoso’s instrument,
And finally it disappears,
And silence.