Your Voice

Where did your voice disappear, man?
In the demonic fires of passion?
In golden castles of terrible greed?
In the dark gorge of vanity?

You voices wander the golden mirages,
Your tired spirit wanders the golden dusts,
Like a warning for the new age;

When the golden bell rings on Wall Street,
Your voice will be even quieter,
Caught in the silky spider web you look up
To see the reflection of your lost spirit in the heavenly dome;
When the golden bell rings on Wall Street,
You find your limbo in the blue ink!
You are seeking your resurrection in verses!

In which verse do I find your voice?
In Walt Whitman’s verse of freedom?
In Ezra Pound’s tragic verse?
In Robert Frost’s accusing verse?

Your voice is hiding in the column of abandoned shadows,
Escaping the lunatic gazes of golden masks,
In which many inebriated eyes found their home.
Whose eyes are they?
The eyes of maddened street lights?
The eyes of hungry death?
The eyes of a lost man?

The shadows march the streets of funeral processions,
The terrible voice of the golden bell chases the poor into the graves,
Golden masks steal human faces,
The eyes of conscience become blind,
Your voice is ever quieter.