through broken pavements and rucked up clay
Past battered drums, banded red and white,
tied with ribbons like the tails of a kite
He comes to the apocalypse and its yellow machines
abandoned by the gods and by men clutching to their dreams
Then, in amidst of quiet despair,
the sun breaks through and nails him there
It is an ancient place, once made
smooth by a brook of trembling hands
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