Mornings, ungreeted, enter the cities
seeking a way thru the narrow streets,

there already men curse
the heavily moving hours;
a hoarse voice
modulates a song
to restore
the spent energy
of a moving arm;
amidst the echoes
of machines
men look upward.

night is a long way, yet,

though dreams find
an expression
in every thought,
in every phrase.


When laughter would greet
the unmarred blue of the sky,
men bury their dead.

And night comes, welcomed
by the thumping beats of homegoing men —

and sleep comes.


When men will welcome mornings,
ushering them thru the streets,
dawn will paint the day
red with awakening,

to the accompaniment of hammer-beats
their hymn will rise.

Then will come the afternoon,
the many patterned sundown
will glow above the houses,
then night will descend, unseen,

and the moon shall glitter.