You who know yourself as no one,
thumbed under the electric cloud,
you, pressed and screwed by time,
back to the cold wall, hear me.

The trumpet of the earth
curves for you its keen brass lips,
soiled letters kern and simmer,
sibilant with your emancipated name,

and you who know yourself as no one,
dumbed by chophouse iniquities,
shall prophesy like yarrow by your forty-nines;
will be first to hear the song of our long hoping.