Like ruddy or tawny ma**es of torn flame,
Over the whirlpool seething in agony
Defiantly they flap and shake on high
The electricity of life, that, ever the same,
Fulminates in the city's pain and shame,
And streams in smoke-clouds towards the ashen sky;
A roaring chaos of wrath and mystery
Fashioned to pleasure That-Which-Has-No Name:
Banners on banners heavily everywhere,
Soul-oriflammes of blood and hate and lust,
Burst flickering through the abysms of the air.
Leap, condors chained; it is our will; you must.
And scream our tragedy even to those dim
Veils of the dawn, where red stars flicker grim!