Lest Answers Come From The Dark Poem by JG Correa

While destinies are connected by the traffic
bodies are drained by avenues, streets, slopes,
viaducts, tree-lined lanes, tunnels and bridges.
Lest answers come from the dark, lights shall signal
the approaching nightfalls and the electric grids
of steel creatures, megalithic monuments
to the living, buildings often made of
plastic, glass, and wood in intense communion,
which man's mind and imagination contemplate
in acts of self-discovery and fulfilment.

Mobs are quiet, and everything is relative
while the arrow of progress points to direct,
dark nothingness as opposed to light fullness.

Light is thus a deafness-disclosing artifice.
Out of craftsmanship, light cuts shades and silhouettes.
Ah! such elusive and poor architecture!
Process is the infinite in the finite"
as Alfred North Whitehead put it so well.
Nature alone properly loves itself, "
as Wystan Hugh Auden put it so well.
Nature is the secret of the great infinite.
Nature fools us in a number of ways,
least of all the monotony of geometry.
Through briefly designed ordinary venues,
man elicited loneliness, and built.
If rocks and tress are surprisingly natural,
artificial progress does oppose nature.
Many want to part with, or fight the impulse
of moroseness by going to see places:
a short trip on amenable week ends,
revealing the wider sky or high mountain,
might as well hit ranges of dreamed surrealism:
alienations mirrored by skyscrapers,
drawing vacant spaces, reflecting waves
of solitary, mind-boggling ideas.

Loads of tobacco spurt invisibility
and sceneries imprison the palmed disquiet.
Man approaches gaiety and life spaces
just as if they sucked asphyxiate asphalt
even though Nature did not bestow Space
upon him as the finest of modalities
of escapist, recreational emptiness.
Gruesome hearts refute every flattering voice.
Disunited, angels do whisper: death.
Where's the secret? Man buried it, by building
buildings. Walls. Walls. Monotony. More buildings.
Solitude is loss of familiarity
as well as loss of the link with the infinite:
what other destination is thus driven?
The will of the Being is always definite.
Crowds generate groups and absurd communities.
God is broad. Yet no template fits solutions.
Born out of its own redolent charm, solitude,
once annulled, rests desolation and entropy.
A nontransferable cycle of loneliness
is on its way; no crowd is less than absolute,
nor many answers derived from mass customizing
which has often been seen round these dark parts.