The greyed, dirtied streets swallow the mass of grey, multicoloured faces
Edged angles and unclean glass sweep the skyline
On the roads the buses carry to and fro’, from all creeds and all races
They huddle out of buildings and into the fray
This once green and pleasant land, one of kings and many riches
It withers away, a hive without buzzing yellow
The body count climbs but spirits wallow; not a single finger twitches
The churches and old fortress walls replaced by shopping malls
These people, this race of builders and poets, of artisans and soldiers
The old gods blessed them with two horses
This city, this ISCA of olden times, builded atop tales still older
Be all lost within the web of time and toil
For what will man do with no home and no heart? Squander power and beauty too?
Leaving behind the father and mother, penniless and drunk?
For what will man do without a firm foundation? Sink beneath the bog, the house made askew?
These questions we cannot find, within these colourless times
A happy answer to.