Seldom right, always insisting;
is it a miracle, a song,
a wind of many letters
of all but the final say so,
an intention, a need,
a crave for viability?

Men of hay, men of straw,
men of dead innards,
march across squares
where needs are hovering
as a fly would.

Old days dance in void,
in lands jaded and lost,
an echo feeding here
in a wild spree.