© Charles E. Corry 1963, 1999
This is the hollow land, the naked land,
Where there are no men, and I, and others
Wander through the immensity of this machine,
Finding no where to fit in this
Dehumanization of our seeking selves.
This is the sad land, the tear-swept land,
Where our creations are only machines
Who dismember us and then disown us,
And no cogs fit, for all their striving,
The emptiness mates instead.
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