Man, you are the prodigal of fat iron gods, Gods of complacent jowls, Gods who love hard made things, Whose fingers grow jocose in touching steel bridges. These gods make the roar in your cities, Man; And your skies smoke from their laughing. You are the prodigal of gods, Man, Who have given you metallic strength And hard pushing shoulders, And the will to sweat. They have made you powerful over steel. They have made your lives steel, And your laughter smoke, And your soul crumbled charcoal. (Of what importance is the soul?) Why are you tired, Man? And why are your eyes become craven? You are the prodigal of gods. The rotund jocose fingers of your gods Are trembling, Man. They have touched a dead face.
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