I'll hear no more of the piteous masses
pray tell now of our dogged filigree.
Persistent iron turned upon itself:
all our own paths blocked, yet withal,
spaces created between thrusts of steel 
and snakes of hard wire make a home
for our heart-red rose without root or stem
-so often cried, repeatedly- mercy.
And I have cried for the limitless masses.
I and I have been the strained muscle
at the trials of the world, moreover
a moving heap of rags; defeated, 
cheated, even now misrepresented.
While one year cannibalises the last
hope must constantly waver on the verge 
of extinction, my contention is
this constancy is cause for celebration.