Manhattan

At least they reach toward the skies, Dumb flint and stone and glass And granite spires From sunless depths and dark foundations In driven concrete chasms Built for wide horizons And the topmost towers of the sun. Golden visions of the heavens From straining sinew and the sweated hour, Despair and hope and toil, Each inch a dedication To man's immortal hand and heart Singing homage in the dust.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...