i saw them stand in line, the line went out of view
and in their hand a form, the dream had been confused
for they had all believed what steel and steam could do
that what the hand could offer was what the hand could lose
ah, but the dream is over, it has faded with the sounds
the knickknacks placed in corners to be dusted all around
ah, but the dream was grand when it held us in its grip
thongh we were thrown about in the storm of authorship

the child who cries at night is given a silver spoon
i wish that gift could be the forest and the moon
for when the child stops crying and wiles away the tears
the building's empty echo will last for many years
the man who looks about at the graying line of thought
the child who plays on concrete is what his time has bought
he does not believe it's over as he stands in line 'til noon
to find another job, to buy another spoon

ah, but the revolution that brought us here in droves
and flushed us out of farmland and out of scented groves
and crushed our winter wheat and bound our woolen threads
that glorious revolution is ingloriously dead
that the garden was forsaken and trampled all to ruin
that the gates shall also crumble and tarnish like the spoon
the line has now dispersed, home to the crowded rooms
to tell their children stories of the forest and the moon
to tell their children stories of all the silver spoons