By Cameron Baillie
How many grand glass houses,
In a city of oft-thrown stones?
Whose heart beats on,
Through centuries gone,
From empire, fossils, and bones?
How many lights burn brightly,
Conscious as our plight grows nightly?
None there to see,
Such spent energy,
From choices they make so lightly.
How many sighs of ‘good grief’,
For those left to seek quick relief?
From lives they made,
Their career, their trade,
Founded on such warped beliefs.
How many faces turn in,
Just so as to not quite be seen?
Post-work link-ups,
And bagged pick-me-ups,
Countless ciggies, booze, and caffeine.
How many can find no home,
Within this hard city’s great dome?
Square feet ‘to let’,
Yet none might they get,
In this den of concrete and chrome.
How many minor concerns,
As our planet crumbles and burns?
What life we knew,
As our fortune grew,
I fear we may never return.
Photography by Julietta Gramigni
