Oh, how alone I am Among the works of man, As I mourn For a love Which eludes me, Like an echo Through the crowded streets On which I stand. Amidst this grandeur Which is man's There is no wonder, There is no love, There is no plan. These bricks Have no aching hearts, No broken dreams; But I Was not made of stone; My heart bruises easily.
6/20/77 Victoria, B.C.
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