Not the Trident sea Lord, —
City I the bitter grief roads
At night I see the black city
There the mountain is regarded for a ton,
In the gentle dampness sirens moan,
Fall of the house, and sad day
Strangers in ugly ruins.
But living from the cracks out,
Talking, meeting, weather,
Clean sidewalks with trash,
Buy a mirror and beads.
Weave and weave their mists Parks.
Mysterious green parks.
And even longer sadness of a mile
And people darker still persistence.