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presses about us here in the evening As you open a window and stare at a stone gray sky, And the streets give back the jangle of meaningless movement That is tired of life and almost too tired to die.

Night comes on, and even the night is wounded; There, on its breast, it carries a curved, white scar. What will you find out there that is not torn and anguished? Can God be less distressed than the least of His creatures are?

Below are the blatant lights in a huddled squalor; Above are futile fires in freezing space. What can they give that you should look to them for compassion Though you bare your heart and lift an imploring face?

They have seen, by countless waters and windows, The women of your race facing a stony sky; They have heard, for thousands of years, the voices of women Asking them: 'Why. . . ?' 110