The children don't understand.
The sweets they pine for are not squeezed from the machine with stripes intact. No—they must be painted on, by hand, with so much care. It is almost unimaginable
... [+]
If you call on
me
one evening
in the city
of un-
known poets
we'll talk
not a word
of the turning
world
no
but win-
dows throw
open
and listen
to the unsung in
unison
beautifully
singing
me
one evening
in the city
of un-
known poets
we'll talk
not a word
of the turning
world
no
but win-
dows throw
open
and listen
to the unsung in
unison
beautifully
singing