Glancing at the skyline of any metropolis, one says:
this ain't the age of visionaries but of skyscraper architects;
a few machines do the work of a thousand ordinary blokes.
sh**! they all can't do much as notables can in a minute.
I warn you against such nonsense scientifically arrayed.
Yes, I'm on the way from anarchy to order and grace
an everyday struggle of my acquaintance. I remember
one who says: no compa**ion is ever wasted, it never fails;
we learn it, and for love only, shall die on the cross of matter.
Is there none who builds grace as tall as a skyscraper?
I think life is just a series of snaps taken for love only.
an interpretation of the real; it's a trace like a footprint.
And now for something slightly different, yes, I remember
the day I butchered grief the beast after long struggle,
blended stones and cement into compost to bury it,
the very next minute the dead burst out of the grave.
As I was just on the look-out for weird clues, I found
myself ‘destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked'.
Can I ask the pros who it is that breathed life into that?
I can't even answer you in two words, ‘not possible'.
Oops! why should plebeians think pictures are enough,
and a verbal scrutiny is worth the paper it is written on?
Gentlemen, exclude me; that's the way with the academics:
this tangle of your nerves only a neurologist can untie.
why should all loudmouths tail off to be quite taciturn?
Grace or love ain't a capsule one finds at a druggist's;
yes, packing all these off to hell for the burning lessons,
I have worshipped the grievous and the ugly for years too
a mere legacy of their fostering I find over the centuries
speeding up our trip to an infernal sludgy dungeon.
One winter night I marked anarchy as a porcupine:
only beneath my blanket did I realise how grievous it was.
‘Heroing is one shortest-lived profession there is, ' I read on,
in a voice that thrills all my nerves more than a scream.
Well, don't stew: it proves what fortuity folks denote.