The Coming of the Day

Have you heard the sound?
Like silent light it pierces.
Metal rising to the sky in palisaded walls
Break the light into a million rays
So that the flat, square glass is painted, washed in golden haze.
Like insects below, the people move about--
They dash to and fro with straight-faced frenzy
The sunlight on their cold faces falls,
Smudging out difference of years or race;
But no one notices.
They are in a hurry, eyes fixed on the clock,
feet tapping, hands clenched, breath held tight.
But the sound, with the day, continually grows.
With 'ear candy' the sound may be dimmed.
With dark eye-glasses, the light may be less piercing.
With a full agenda the clock may be hurried on
Past the moments of decision--
Moments of life or death.
What they can't shut out though, is the coming of the day.
Each night the streets may flow with filth
Each night the darkness may grow yet darker
Each night captives may be led away,
While masters of debauchery will be enslaved.
Death may meet some--expected or not--
The difference is a small one.
But no matter how black the sky is painted,
No matter how thickly a city of people may lay on the filth
The Day will come--all will be washed away.
Light will creep into the corners and crevices
Some will open their eyes to receive it, others not.
But victorious, the sound of Day will never end its resounding cry--
From roof to roof, window to window, shore to shore.
Until all have heard.