The houses of my Babylon lean upon each other. They will not fall, not until the last hard hand quits the last hammer, not until misfortune loses prey, not until the least last child is gently packed in wool and sent to play. Sooner will you hear their see-saw hinges wail. Will you then ask of them a song of home?
The windows of the houses of my Babylon lay bear the walls around them. Who but gray grandfathers marking time press their noses to the glass? The visions of their lonely vigils fade, half life unrecorded, shadows on parade, whispered secrets kept secret. You will never know with what intent they overlook your passing through.
Rain tears on the windows of the houses of my Babylon, the bath of unattended panes dropped free from heaven. They will not wash clear. They will ever wear the haze of tainted air. You think this stain the mark of unrepentant sin. Who, then, gives the absolution of so many brown-burned fingers that will not scrub up?