Newborn cry in the morning air
The past and the future are wedded there
In this wellspring of my sons and daughters
The bone and blood of living water
And, though Grandpa's hands have gone to dust,
Like Grandma's pump; reduced to rust,
Their stories quench my soul and mind
Like water from another time.
The empty hand of innocence
Transfusing street of the sorrows
And children of the wood
Hounded, shredding all veils
And winding all sheets of the dead world droning
Overturning tables laden with silver sacrificial birds
Beating goat-skin drums
Advancing with hands out-stretched
And we keep filling them with mercury, nitrate, asbestos
Baby bombs blasting blue
Scavengers picking through the ashes
Children of the mills!
Children of the junkyards!
Sleepy, illiterate, fuzzy little rats
Stoned out of their shaved heads
Forgotten, foraging, mystical children
Foul-mouthed, glassy eyed, hallucinating.
„After such knowledge, what forgiveness?” (T. S. Eliot, „Gerontion”)