Echoes of the Voice of Jeremiah
Noise, mechanical noise
wafts up with the smog from the streets.
Hundreds creep quickly with purpose and poise
of ants crawling from mound to mound
of steel, stoic cubes and fingers reaching to the sky with a crowned,
clawed finger aspiring for the heavens.
They are in cocoons. With fleet,
decisive steps, they march on the streets
and pass a hundred more seated beside.
No nod or glance is given.
But in shoes of leather, suede or hide
they go where is right in their own eyes.
red, on a wall:
"Let no man judge" - then, underneath,
two circles and arrows, each on each
overlapping; they are noticed by all.
The winds blow
the noise everywhere.
Truth is perished; we go
from one street to another, and only know
of ourselves and what we want and wear.
And the people, like ants
lead their own lives as slaves;
long ago, the Queen was cast out, amid rights and rants
and was lost in the rhythm of the waves.
Could Babouc present an idol
for this people?
Are there jewels to be scavenged?
Is their gold to be won?
There is only the tidal
retreat of the sea, leaving the face
of the city cold and bare.
Who will care?
When the wind is chased, it is soon gone,
and a whirlwind will return to avenge.
A diamond has writ on their hearts as they creep all
around. The artist in red
lied when he wed
his drawings; he would not wish they overlap
but instead merely wander,
and meet, and go
Truth is perished; neither land nor
sea can find her.
When the whirlwind comes, none will know
this was what we had been sowing.
The smog rolls from the tower tops
to the gulls
where they float and glide on the wind.
The noise from the city lulls
for the night, and its singular people wind
their lives around their shoes
that they have a right to choose.