The world has her distances I cannot pursue
Across fields of summer nights
Spent alone, alone in the crowds
Lines on her face so grievous
The world is half-shamed always
In her unhurried humiliation of routines

Trapped in the roles of her fate
The world has discovered a new
Dissatisfaction, meanwhile we satire
The rhetoric of falling afternoon
We think we’ve seen it all, though maybe

The world was to us just one view of a face
A billion faces in the crowds
Exchanging nods with colleagues
Aware that nobody is watching after all
As unselfconscious as a line of trees
Duty was the last giving of our heart.

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