The last spark of sun dissolved into the valley.
Dark, a mansion dances to the thrill of events.
Lights-flowers-vases-table cloths-napkins, comely.
Strike of eight, a party was invigorated.
Curtains lifted, chandeliers glowing yellow white.
Tons of gables surveying the guests consisting,
Public men, women, smart and gaudy, midas-like,
And plenty of splendid carriages, ebony or ember.
Air, blended with waltz from a pitful ochestra,
Under a constant sea of movement, confusion.
Men helping themselves to cigars, ports of extras,
Women, noticing, showing, accompanying.
On the dinner table a feast, usual.
The hors-d'oeuvre, roasted classic ham and foie gras.
Sent eyes spell-bounded, but still he thought was normal
Well, he almost enjoy such luxuries daily.
While the lavishness goes on satisfying guests,
A beggar squats in an alley lamped by moonlight,
Rubbing his hands by the vent that supplied warm gas.
Chill and hungry night he prays to take him away.
By 7 spades
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