A325

While the city slept in silent grace,

I stood alone in a quiet place.

Near Arnhem’s road, the A325,

Where engines hummed, and dreams drove live.

The stars were out, the streets were still,

But on this road rolled iron wheel.

Through mist and dark, their journeys tight—

The truckers worked the depth of night.

One roared by, its cargo sealed,

Perhaps with fruits from distant fields.

Bananas kissed by island sun,

Now racing East, their voyage run.

Another held machines in steel,

Forged afar, now part of real—

A hidden link from port to hand,

That builds and feeds and lifts the land.

Then silence fell, a moment’s breath…

Before a diesel sang from depth.

A Polish plate, a steady hum,

A shop in Łódź awaits its sum.

Then Munich plates, with giant load,

Machinery for mines or roads!

Each wheel a beat of stubborn hope,

Each mile a line on labor’s scope.

Arnhem was sleeping, soft and wide,

But not the ones who drive with pride.

Their trailers hold the world we’ve spun—

Each box a need, each mile hard-won.

So here’s to them, who bear the weight,

Of every town and every crate.

Their wheels turn slow, their duty fast—

They make the present, move the past.