Poor of timid hope
Pavement man sleeps.
Screeching wheels run,
Heeding unkempt dreams.
Hark!
There the modern man, sprint.
What race is this,
Poverty plough veins
In hunger and disease, and
Plenty play Venus.
Hark!
There the modern man, rot.
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Incisive and insightful.The frugality of his words belies the author’s magnitude of vision.
‘m indebted by thy words dear Sir Louis Kasatkin! Regards.