They plan. They build. All spaces are gridded,
filled with permutations of possibilities.
The buildings are in alignment with the roads
which meet at desired points
linked by bridges all hang
in the grace of mathematics.
They build and will not stop.
Even the sea draws back
and the skies surrender.
They erase the flaws,
the blemishes of the past, knock off
useless blocks with dental dexterity.
All gaps are plugged
with bleaming gold.
The country waers perfect rows
of shining teeth.
Anaesthesia, amnesia, hypnosis,
They have the means.
THey have it all so it will not hurt,
so history is new again.
THe piling will not stop.
The drilling goes right through
the fossils of last century.
But my heart would not bleed
poetry. Not a single drop
to stain the blueprint
of our past's tomorrow.
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