In the night of nights
Under the brightest moon of the darkness
Under the metallic bridge of cars
On the dreamlike streets of yellow
I march.
It is not a lone march
And will never be
The bridge never ends
The moon never sets
And the crowds never disperse
All steps are uniform
No discrepancies are seen
All driven by the mechanical hand
The ticking of the watch
The dripping of the hourglass
The moon is a sickle
That never harvests
The bridge is a knife
That never cuts
The yellow drums pulse, seemingly forever
I have come twenty miles
I will go eighty more, or less
I have walked through some blindfolded
I have tripped over stones
I have complained, I have cried.
But the march must go on.
Woe be to him
Who looks not to the front
But to the bright sickle in the east
To the metallic knife of the gods
To the dull and dark pavement that abrades his foot
Layer by layer.
