A cluster of them skyward grows
Like shoots of glass and steel;
A colony of gray, dead weeds,
Upon a flattened concrete hill.
They are a testament to Mankind’s skill.
And his folly.
A skirt of green attends their feet,
Redressing life and beauty,
The last untarnished remnant
Of the naked time before,
When the world and Man yet tarried.
With their mirrored eastern faces
They catch the matin light,
The sun’s first gleaming of the day,
His groggy effort ghostly white,
Exposing solid spires for insubstantial spectres.
Likened to Nature’s splendor,
The blinding shining of the gods,
Even the loftiest edifice
Has only some small semblance
More substance than a spirit.
Reflections of existence, nothing more.
Scraping at the sky and
Charming lightning with their rods,
They seem a piddly attempt at innovation,
A sad reprise of ancient legend,
Of Towers and waxen wings.
Wise were ye old Solomon.
Ah! the sheer audacity
Of your relentless, remorseless size!
Flaunt your strength and stature!
Stab at Heaven’s door!
You great temple shrines to Riches
Have naught to do with Wealth or Power!
Only Man and his pride.