A poem by Duane H.H. Lyon I recently viewed restored footage of a passenger train unloading in Lyon, France in 1899.
The men and women were moving about like ants, coming and going cheerfully, no one was thinking about dying.
110 years later, I departed from a train in Lyon, France in vain to discover any ancestor I might find.
Everyone was long gone, and in the damp rain I felt so all alone. I cried…