It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

History Has To Live With What Was Here, Clutching And Close To Fumbling All We Had - It Is So Dull And Gruesome How We Die, Unlike Writing, Life Never Finishes.

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.