Driven by necessity, man can achieve
Elevation in a confined space
And in a place of Babel reach the sky.
Bewildered, men look up, wonder
And demand, where does it end?
Is there a friend behind those many windows?
One who can sing, sigh, grow old quietly
And die behind the grand facades.
And though many lives are worn
Under the torn sky. The unending fuss,
Of subway, ferry, cab and bus,
Consists of parts made up of each of us.
Tags: new writers