Manhattan's Faceless Crowd

A faceless crowd
With nameless fears
Drifts through the canyons
Every day,
They don't know why,
They don't know where,
Directionless is their brief stay,
And in the turmoil,
Like little ants,
They run their circular way,
They are an absurdity
In an absurd world,
Where their roles they play,
But oblivion lurks
At beginning and end,
While the interval is gray.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2006 Alfred Charasz