When rockets begin to fall from the sky
To make the late afternoon cry,
Something must be done to trumpet
Through the naked silhouette
Of the daily news.
The flowers must take back their homeland
Be permanent, be baffling, be grand.
Let the stars follow their walk;
Then, with comfort the birds will flock,
Dispelling the days blues.
Once common romantic appetites
Will begin to fill those marble nights.
Triumphantly understanding its goal
To fill the large translucent hole,
Begging for its taboos.
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