There, and dawn is no more. In every final minute where rest ends the daily toil, there it begins anew. There it waits.

The gutters speak of such places. Down and out, a head hung low, then glance around no more.

The yolk of industry.

Smoke stacks to kill the sky. Hands and backs tied and pull upon chains to haul the stones of industry. Every ache felt without a whip, yet the Pharaohs of Now still demand their legacy.

Concrete, steel, electricity. Names in bright lights. The Gods of New now dawn upon the Earth.

What actelyne spark would light. What in their glow would one see. What rose would bloom so putrid, grey upon the edges, and scent the factories with perspiration until they empty.

Until these factories move elsewhere to seek sweat much cheaper. Until new blood is spilled upon a floor. Until hopelessness spreads like tears down a cheek.

Look around and cars whizz by. The ebb and flow of what others would have those drivers do for them. The veneer of choice. What movie to watch. What to shop, what to buy. Where to work, and what time.

There is no liberty here.

There exists but an inky dot where the sun once was, and carrion mist where clouds would be.

Rust where should be grass. Glass where there should be air. Tall spires that reign where there should be sky.

Empires where there are boardrooms. Papers where once were swords.

Ashes where once were dreams.