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Photo by Tom Grant


By The Old Waterfront Station

By the old Waterfront Station
I sat down and wept
for the victims of war and terrorism,
the wounded from gender battles,
and the poor and the outcast
gathering at the barricades
waiting for the second coming.

And I remembered the old streets
of my younger days
where fire and wind flowed
over placards and slogans,
over marches to Jerusalem
over Eden's deep peace.

Why did You bring us to
this station of brick and glass
where ads shill for souls
where every inch is rented,
and nobody knows your name?

Still, Your autumn sun
falls through the windows,
between pedestrians
striding for home
and through the glass I see
youth coming down Seymour Street
heading for the front doors
hope from the ages sparking
off their cell phones
reaching north of night.


By Michael Dallaire