When the sun shouts and people abound

　　One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of

　　bronze

　　And the iron age； iron the unstable metal；

　　Steel made of iron， unstable as his mother； the tow-

　　ered-up cities

　　Will be stains of rust on mounds of plaster.

　　Roots will not pierce the heaps for a time， kind rains

　　will cure them，

　　Then nothing will remain of the iron age

　　And all these people but a thigh-bone or so， a poem

　　Stuck in the world's thought， splinters of glass

　　In the rubbish dumps， a concrete dam far off in the

　　mountain