I see a man begin to climb

Then watch him give it up

I notice all the needy hands

Holding paper cups

I witness with my body

All the pains we hold inside

Just so many fallen men

With our wounded pride

I see the nightly messengers

Rushing to and fro

Assuring all the travelers

They know where we are going

Their voices sound convicing

But then I see their chests

They're hollow and enameled

From a mold like all the rest

Who creates this city

With its' sadness and its hope?

WHo is muscled to the back

And who ascends the slopes?

Who looks down from up above

Just laughhing at this joke...

I think it is the man in back

Who really holds the yoke

I see that man begin to climb

So strelthily aournd

The line that we 're all waiting in

So well,without a sound

He makes his way into the front

He brushes off his coat

His left hand takes our names,while

His right hand hides the yoke

--------Poems for peace,with Love