Nor the mournful cooing of the dove from the rocky hillside,
Near the spring, which is bordered with cresses.
I only hear the reverberation of the riveter,
That iron woodpecker, which perches upon the steel- girders.
High against the sky, with iron-bill
Tapping, rattling, reverberant, deafening.
I see men running about on beams and girders,
Human spiders, weaving the iron-cobwebs of the sky- scrapers.
I see them running about recklessly as if the air were their home.
A sudden slip, a swift rush to Eternity,
On the pavement, the blood trickling from his nostrils,
A spider of the iron-web lies still.
A coat blots out the sight.
TRUTH: Nothing is ever blotted.
Even the grass-roots remember when they have fed on blood.
POET: Justice is blind.
TRUTH: Justice, immortal, relentless, clear-visioned ; Red drop for drop, carefully insisting that the debt be paid.
POET: There lies the accusing thing, Shouting its loud, dumb challenge to the sky.
TRUTH: Dead for a wage so pitiful.
34
POET:
