To build a quiet city in his mind:
A single overwhelming wish; to build,
Not hastily, for there is so much wind,
So many eager smilers to be killed,
Obstructions one might overlook in haste:
The ruined structures cluttering the past,
A little at a time and slow is best,
Crawling as though through endless corridors,
Remembering always there are many doors That open to admit the captured guest Once only.
Yet in spite of loss and guilt And hurricanes of time, it might be built:
A refuge, permanent, with trees that shade When all the other cities die and fade.
