Clangor in the smokestack air.
Dross, the cloudy factories strip.
Work ascendant, harsh and fair,
With unrelenting iron grip.
All that obstructs the vision,
And all the past has reaved,
Is scribed with cold incision,
Consigned, in fire wreathed.
Supervised from livid tower,
Exquisite, ornately alone;
Seeped in acrid vista's glower,
That burns far deeper than bone.
No degree of intensity,
Eschews the engineering hand.
That relishes woe's immensity,
Assumes a loftier command.
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