The secret of these hills was stone, and
Of that stone made,
And crumbling
That turned on sudden hidden
Now over these small hills, they have built the
That trails black
Pylons, those
Bare like nude giant girls that have no secret.
The valley with its gilt and evening
And the green
Of customary root,
Are mocked dry like the parched bed of a brook.
But far above and far as sight
Like whips of
With lightning's
There runs the quick perspective of the future.
This dwarfs our emerald country by its
So tall with
Dreaming of
Where often clouds shall lean their swan-white neck.
