World Affairs

What is the rich world to me? Simply a shiny, wretched thing Writhing on the mattress of slimy wealth Like a little crazy caterpillar, Fattened by its own frivolous ego. The world that was decades ago Was not like this one: It was a fine print of rich culture With an occasional slight guilt About nurturing its own little lot. Now, people with great hurry and worry With so little time for themselves Scurry on roads, sludge and bridges. Their daily drudges in gigantic offices Go on in never-ceasing smooth ruts. These poor tiny figures, then, Move back to their tiny homes And unemotional, immobile apartments Languidly with bent heads and slouched shoulders Like their remote ancestors, Neanderthals. Alas! These modern men of frail frames Simply silhouetted against jumbo walls

Of tall, arrogant buildings Looking out over the congested clusters Of filthy, scattered slums Festering with their own decadent problems And sweltering slowly with their salty sweat Rolling down their brows, temples and breasts In hard-sucking mills and factories_ The epitomes of cruelty and no hope. All the multitudes here simply grope Through the billowy black clouds Of their dark, awesome Destiny. With kicks and tricks, guesses and stresses, They move here round on stony ground Of legal laws and shaky circumstances.

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