It thrusts against the sky, that fallow womb While the waters we raised lap its lurid weight In these austere halls The generations echo unlived, Their laughter muted, their tears unshed On these pristine walls and barren floors, A silent perfection that no one will witness, No one can access These honeycomb cells house tenants, too The churn of the sea, the rippling heat And the private stillnesses of corpseless tombs Down in the drowned boiler room Some cold soul stirs It turns in its lonely repose To recall memories it never birthed Who would mourn them, those pinioned fools Now spared their sorry fate: To subsist on the bitter fruit That passes for survival, in these vile final days? The dead-end jobs and the chronic aches The food that sallows, and the jokes from the gallows The cry-choked air and the fat-cloaked bones The poisons to love, and the leaders to hate The grey lives endured with purposeless grace What wild spirit could thrive on such pain? What primal will would cling to this place?