Where once the grasses played and ploughed,
in faithful winds had swung and bowed,
there now lie a thousand flies adrift …
All choked in sod and soaked to death.
A million artificial stars
be falling stars that never stop.
And on the surface tracks of dust
be grinding footsteps hard and fast,
too cruel for moon and earth too last.
Groping hands of eternal fright
not finding what they ever might .
The treasures they will no more find,
obstruct their eyes and make them blind.
Through brutal conscience, smog and fire
our paradise has changed to mire.
