I look through the glass wall of a world cast in concrete.
I look through glass walls at smoke-filled skies and flickering images of fires burning around the globe.
Somewhere, in deep pots, are museum displays from a younger planet: Green vestiges of a healthier, cleaner time gone by.
I read the pages of other men who watched the World-Poets who sang their praise to that which was . . .
And I, the cliché of modern grey man,
singing nothing but clichés of lost innocence and the descent into hell.