Is your heart beneath your streets,
Trapped in concrete ribs,
Where flowers once stood, and reeds in wind,
On yesterday’s gentle meadows?
Are glass facades your face,
And painted walls your cheeks,
And brazen billboards your lashes?
Your ambition hums like relentless wheels,
Your goals impatient idling at the lights,
To rush forward at the turn of green,
Ever moving, ever been.
Is it really so important to get there?
Your towers are your pride,
Reaching the sky, touching heaven,
Pillars by day, lights by night,
Burning till the morrow that never comes,
Churning out the fancies of your insatiable appetite.
I have searched your crowded loneliness,
Through milling malls,
To see if I could find the real you,
The one I knew many years ago.
I have walked your manicured parks,
Dedicated to the memory of former days.
I have tapped the marble statues of your glory,
Just to feel if you were real,
And looked in eyes that never looked me back.
Take time to stop, and follow me,
Past the sea of your sprawling emptiness.
Let us take the ancient paths and country lanes,
To the place that you were born,
And listen to the silence once again.
Then I’ll take you back and we will drive,
A highway carved through all the sham.
No jostling pride, no fume, no toll.
Returning by the highway to your soul.