September 1935

A Song in the Cities

Volume 18, Issue 9


The Little Drums are banging

Mad war songs of the trails.

My nostrils sting with memories

Of thunderous, crashing gales.

My eyes are sick with staring

At these monoliths of man

And sick of vain illusion

I shall go where I can,

Find Gods to fit my temples-

Find strength to meet my need-

Find scars to hold my memories-

Find men who knew my creed-

Sick of the waste of mankind

In these roaring walls of stone,

(These lustful sons of boredom

Afraid to be alone)

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