  With sardonic futility The multi-coloured crowd, Hurried by fervent sensuality, Flees from something carried on its back. Endlessly subdued, a sound Pours up from the crowd, Like some one ever gasping for breath To utter releasing words. Through the artificial valley Made by gaudy evasions, The stifled crowd files up and down, Stabbing thought with rapid noises. Women strutting dulcetly, Embroider their unappeased hungers, And men stumble toward a flitting opiate. Sometimes a moment breaks apart And one can hear the knuckles Of children rapping on towering doors: Rapping on the highway Where civilization parades Its frozen amiabilities! |
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