Thursday, January 10, 2013


Oh Spartan!
What weary wears these hands have weaved
These walls of stone that wears so worn,
You sit and fade, old man, yet you are the light,
The pride that burns beneath these brandished towers,
Oh how you rot, you decay with the setting day,
Your caverns of rusting steel, aging wheels
 Brushed to dust and then devoured
Still your fire glows
You shuffle from the sanitary market with lightened
Heart, with both pockets and packages empty
And with your arthritic fingers clutch upon your
Car fare home, clutched upon your ticket to salvation.
Oh Spartan! Is it noble,
These crabbed and crooked streets speak
Sorrow, and how your weary limbs grow weak
And your eyes grow blind.
How long can you test despair,
Stepping from curb to curb with unstained feet?
Out from the ghetto you walk
Proud below the darkened towers
Of bestial mills and forged factories,
Out from the shadows of red painted buildings
Upon which the business of banks has placed their
Curse – you rise, Oh Spartan,
A staggering giant, clutching the railing
For support, eyeing the tiled walls with doubtful eyes,
The cracks are there to see
And so are the promises. 

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