I can't shake off an older time, a yesterday
when men together faced the drought and storm
stout souls would share wild earth and air
to give a helping hand was just the norm.
Today, pretend next door's a hundred leagues away.

Our doors stay shut, against the metal scream of pain;
The mass of men's become a faceless flood.
When men are few, their words are true
and more than gold the worth of human blood.
I pray the day when we have names will come again.