The Cold Spring

This is the cold spring, the cold spring.
The cold spring after cold winter,
after many cold hours,
where men gathered and waited for morning coffee,
and set themselves to work, by standing in line,
their hands clench and unclench,
no longer having tools to hold.
This is the cold spring, which coils around their hearts,
and tells them that they are not needed any more.

In a year not long ago the hot winds did torque and blow,
and a city, one that we all by memory know
was marked by map to be half of what it was.

Now another city of singing percussion finds,
that it is tossed out and the present grinds,
grinds it to dust. Not to die in firey water,
but drowned in icy lose of wanderlust.

This is the cold spring,
from which will spring
a new generation, that shall have a faith
that is faithless to a past,
that now freezes us out of all hope and hurry.
And leaves us now, with debt and worry.

This is the cold spring,
from a place that was once, covered in green,
false green, so we've seen.
And from this spring we fly,
and hope, perchance, to land,
on some new land,
which will not torment,
between over heated fever dream,
and burning cold mornings
short of coffee,
while we watch once busy men,
stand
alone
in
line.