The Age of Critism

 

Time stands still on the clocks with no faces
That revolve on the axis of fear
The men of ideas huddle in the dark damp basement
Without food for three days and drinking from puddles
That have evaporated from pools of generosity

But the pretty maids still dance without knowing
And the polished pebbles skip off bridges into naked streams
Under the conference of the suns as they decide where to shine
And where to cast shadows on the square earth
Unaware of the men in the dark damp basement

Who squeeze through the cracks in the wooden slate roofs
And glide to four corners extending tentacular fingers
That roughen the pebbles till they get stuck in the mud
And the pretty maids fall into a row
And the suns cannot decide anymore 
Whether to shine