CHEYENNE
My
city,
You
are a happy place at 6 a.m.,
Gold
dome rising into the pure sky.
Why
is it that when I come back
Onto
the streets at 11,
I
find nothing but money and sadness
And
death in the air?
Surely
it is not Time itself
That
takes away morning's freeddom?
No,
it is men--
And their filthy ideas,
Their
dirty hands, their usury, their poverty
In
the midst of plenty.
Men,
when will you let in
The
riches that surround you?
When
will you take off your rags?
When
will you see your own bodies' kingdoms?
When
will you let your city shine?
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