He who is of books
Is ignorant of the streets as its heart beats louder and
screams are the people
In which they lie on the concrete under bridges and squat in
abandon building poverty warming them with a needle in their vein and a belly
empty since last winter that was colder than now
The intellectuals in universities and schools so foolishly
idealists withholding such an ailment poisoning the mind
For they see only a world in which a scale is put to see the
tilting of the tide
If done no wonder they hug trees and stand for the
institution that told them of the books they read now
To see their governments from father time
Clock ticking backwards only sees the good done
As the people lie dying off the face of the watch that
stands still
The street and I see the people shivering from the cold of a
government’s word for repair that bares no warmth or satiation
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