By A. O. Wallat
City-slum, low and small
On rolling hill, the buildings still,
People strange and fevered, all
In the centre, towering tall
Black spire stands,
Directing all
Working metal
Welding, drilling
Sounds and screams
Like wailing children
In the centre, towering tall
Black spire stands,
Controlling all
Within the spire’s colossal sphere
Frozen ears and stolen tongues
Asunder, under blackened snow
Books,
Nature,
Bone,
Remnants of old and young
In the centre, towering tall
Black spire stands
Enslaving all
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