|
Reticent she returns to the streets |
|
Where she once floated above in hospital sheets |
|
Hands on the walls where small handprints still weigh |
|
With the burden of crimson indelible paints |
|
Where are the hands that once fit these young prints? |
|
What have they grabbed at ever since? |
|
Nights used to be dangerous here |
|
But now the mornings have exceeded her deepest fears |
|
Because that's when the concrete creeps in |
|
And perpetrates with more than the greatest sins |
|
And weighs down on what used to be known as the neighbourhood |
|
Deliberate, slow, destructive defeat |
|
As new corners consolidate the neighbourhood streets |
|
Where are the ones who she stepped with right here |
|
Below the bar, now a bank clad with anonymous steel? |
|
Where are the sounds of the children once heard? |
|
Replaced with new parking and yellowed-out curbs |
|
Now she can only afford to return |
|
For a doctor, an in-law, or a day in the sun |
|
Some still cling, if the building still stands |
|
Some sing liberation from felonious hands |
|
But most will get lost in new peripheral sprawl |
|
Where new handprints signify on old concrete walls |
|
Florescent excuses for light |
|
Steal all the shadows from the nights, from the nights |
|
Parody or progress? You just want to tear it down |
|
As you're standing right in the middle of the wrong side of town |
|
Florescent excuses for light |
|
Steal all the shadows from the nights, from the nights |
|
Parody or progress? You just want to tear it down |
|
As you're standing right in the middle of the wrong side of town |