On the summer sky the airship hangs,
Slow motion bullet of a god,
While the red sun, lead end of gun,
Smokes at the forehead of all dream.
The Sunday housetops line the world,
The Sunday papers fill the rooms,
The headlines drain the human veins
Pouring the future in a stream.
And mankind lies beneath the towers
Against a rising wall of cloud:
In wedge and torture boot of hours
From the jowled silence comes the scream.
And Sunday leans upon the town
Enormous seraph with the heirloom brow:
From the blue eye of the blond sky
Who shall cast out his mammoth beam?
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