The people yes
The people will live on.
The learning and blundering people will live on.
They will be tricked and sold and again sold
And go back to the nourishing earth for rootholds,
The people so peculiar in renewal and comeback,
You can’t laugh off their capacity to take it.
The people so often sleepy, weary, enigmatic, is a vast huddle with many units saying: “I earn my living. I make enough to get by and it takes all my time. If I had more time I could do more for myself and maybe for others. I could read and study and talk things over and find out about things. It takes time. I wish I had the time.”
Once having marched Over the margins of animal necessity, Over the grim line of sheer subsistence Then man came To the deeper rituals of his bones, To the lights lighter than any bones, To the time for thinking things over, To the dance, the song, the story, Or the hours given over to dreaming, Once having so marched.
Between the finite limitations of the five senses and the endless yearnings of man for the beyond the people hold to the humdrum bidding of work and food while reaching out when it comes their way for lights beyond the prison of the five senses, for keepsakes lasting beyond any hunger or death. This reaching is alive. The panderers and liars have violated and smutted it. Yet this reaching is alive yet for lights and keepsakes.
The people know the salt of the sea and the strength of the winds lashing the corners of the earth. The people take the earth as a tomb of rest and a cradle of hope. Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law. The people is a polychrome, a spectrum and a prism held in a moving monolith, a console organ of changing themes, a clavilux of color poems wherein the sea offers fog and the fog moves off in rain and the labrador sunset shortens to a nocturne of clear stars serene over the shot spray of northern lights.
The steel mill sky is alive. The fire breaks white and zigzag shot on a gun-metal gloaming. Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother.
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers. There are men who can’t be bought. The fireborn are at home in fire. The stars make no noise. You can’t hinder the wind from blowing. Time is a great teacher. Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief the people march. In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people march: “Where to? what next?”