I feel the echoes of my people,
Rustling the idle grass in patient waves,
The light falls gently at the hour,
Drawing in the clouds to its descent,
Like robes of white and sashes to its lowered face,
Humbly now it hides its glory for the day,
Set firmly into dimmer shades refracted.

Wisened streets,
Bigger than the concrete corners,
Sitting in the smaller lands,
No, not here,
Here all things small are larger still,
Dressed in fancy walls of glass,
Dressed in proper pillars tall,
Dressed in rushing people to and fro,
Dense with lively creatures swaying,
On its yellow-rimmed arteries racing,
And I dive into the bog,
Of flowing glass and metal streets,
Into the beeping cars onlooking,
And I travel through the yellow tubes,
And waltz along the wisened streets.