Cross-point

The crowd is a rainbow storm-tossed sea

Wrapped for months in yellow shades

It rages in a riverbed of glass and iron banks

Without ever bursting over them

The turmoil washes ashore a white edged dyke

Of jagged knives and metal-bamboo scaffoldings

The flow, once scattered, is once again cut through

By towers erected by mankind

Grey crystal walls imbricated stand high

Clear and neat on the blue sky, upright

Or intricacy of hanging gateways

Sometimes trapping rays of golden lights

Still, in the beating heart of the ever growing city,

Exists a hidden path of older stones leading uphill

To a hole in nature, wreathed in ray reflections

Where holy songs tickle your heart

For your soul is now resting.