We built that tower with our own hands
Laid it down brick upon brick upon brick
Built from the finest dreams, the sweetest fantasies,
The golden possibilities
Each more glorious than the one before.
And we adorned it with the most beautiful carvings,
Of Gods and men and birds in flight,
Exotic animals and the blitz of fame,
Until finally there wasnt a plain spot
No matter where you looked
And it stretched to the Heavens
And back,
Aesthetically stunning,
Architectonically wonderful,
And we called it The Future.
And when we thought we were finished
With our monumental task
We stepped back, and looked up,
Stasjonsbygningen var et av disse moderne byggene som på ingen måte ser stygge ut, men allikevel ikke passer inn i bylandskapet rundt. Fire betongklosser holdt oppe et buet glasstak, det var mørkt for å holde ute det verste sollyset men det gikk lett an å se himmelen gjennom det. Mellom betongklossene var det gjennomsiktige glassvegger som hadde gitt en god utsikt til plassen rundt hadde det ikke vært for folkemengden, en av veggene hadde en åpning i seg der folk strømmet inn og ut, til kiosken i den ene betongklossen eller til billettkontoret i en annen, kanskje bare for å sette seg ned på en av de minimalistiske stålbenkene og se avventende
Seventy-six Bloody Trombones by SmallChange, literature
Literature
Seventy-six Bloody Trombones
There are no parades to be rained upon, no dragging banners through the mud
no flag will ever mean anything to anyone so befallen
there is no escape for the whispering spirit
as it is released into white halls and corridors, cotton-draped
to find its own way, oblivious
eerily silent but faintly detectable
through the unfocused, sleep-crusted eyes of the mortally ill
the light inside the pupil doesn't visibly extinguish -
there was no light before and is none now
the pupil remains black, no lie
there is no loss of weight to compliment the still warm husk
no black-gloved women will gather by the roadside
freshly turned earth smells