There are lights on either side,
Of the dark road, falling down, down,
Like a waterfall;
This flowerbed of men, women and those with,
Cluttered, raised voices, of tottering innocence.
There are dustbins,
Staring at each passer-by,
Immigrant, some Samaritan, a bad shooter of banana peal,
Open to you, welcome, for a purpose,
With armless hugs, always unattended,
There are footpaths,
The grandfather of generations,
Keeper of footsteps,
Precursor to paths,
Witness to life, its softness, its wrath,
Men; their plight,
Women; their might,
Masses in revolt,
People lost; hopeless in love, heartless in fight,
Half dead beggars and models on diet, Shadows in smoke, figures in dust, Old faces; all strangers at first,
Everything that passes, everything that stops,
Those gutteral depths,
Those glittering tops.
Not all eyes are seen, not all sights are sought, And not all things remain, for which one has fought,. This life is but a passing, All tides upon the sea, The world witness, as one, Have freedom to feel free.