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Staring down an alley lit by antique lanterns,
Fixed and updated with like-so technology, I watch
The goings of the figures surrounding the cobblestone.

Masqueraders in suits smirk down at the beggars in rags:
Rags of faded gold, the hue from the combs of honey
They left behind, or never had.

The rag piles collect in a hive of bees, swarming
In desperation to find a home; and they weakly buzz back
At the swatting sensations of the hands of the well dressed:

The songbirds; with nests to return at night, and sunlight
To warm the top of their wings with every flap
They have no need for the bees in rags. The sight

Of the insects, the sight of what they themselves
Could crumble into, creates chest palpitations
That they can only quench with beatings.

Motionless, I weakly watch the blows come down.
I wonder if it is only on this little back street
That the songbirds look uglier than the bees.

I wonder if their flapping wings just might sting harder
Than the stingers the bees never use. And I glance at the lanterns
Shining above the actions humans find ordinary,

And realize they are the only pieces of work on the street
That ever evolved with the times.





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