I see a man begin to climb
Then watch him give it up
I notice all the needy hands
Holding paper cups
I witness with my body
All the pains we hold inside
Just so many fallen men
With our wounded pride
I see the nightly messengers
Rushing to and fro
Assuring all the travelers
They know where we are going
Their voices sound convicing
But then I see their chests
They're hollow and enameled
From a mold like all the rest
Who creates this city
With its' sadness and its hope?
WHo is muscled to the back
And who ascends the slopes?
Who looks down from up above
Just laughhing at this joke...
I think it is the man in back
Who really holds the yoke
I see that man begin to climb
So strelthily aournd
The line that we 're all waiting in
So well,without a sound
He makes his way into the front
He brushes off his coat
His left hand takes our names,while
His right hand hides the yoke
--------Poems for peace,with Love
