London - William Blake (Old Masters reinterpreted)

I wander thro’ each charter’d street, Near where the waiting rooms overflow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every patient lost, In every mother’s fear for her child’s turn, In every voice, in every silenced cost, “The Mind-forg’d manacles” I hear. Mind-forg’d manacles, hear them ring! The heavy weight of a hollow thing. From the hospital ward to the city square, The chains are woven in the very air. Mind-forg’d manacles... holding the soul. How the desperate voices cry, Every blackning virtue appalls, And the hapless voices sigh Runs in blood down N-H-S walls. Endless queues for a pain dismissed, While the coffers feed the bureaucrat’s fist, A cold compassion that withholds the bread, Counting the living... among the dead. I see the "pity" of the howling mob, Whose hearts within their bosoms rob. They cheer to see a brother’s fall, Then write their "evil" on the wall. Your thoughts are sin, your words are prey, In this darkened, ideological day. They sharpen the tongue to justify the strike, Treating the man... and the monster alike. But most, through midnight feeds I hear, How the righteous curse blasts the open tear, And blights with plagues the fragile hearse— When disagreement means you deserve the worst. The iron is cold, but the mind is colder, With a mountain of fear... on every shoulder. Mind-forg’d manacles, hear them ring! The heavy weight of a hollow thing. From the hospital ward to the city square, The chains are woven in the very air. Charter’d streets. Charter’d hearts. The plague is the thought. Mind-forg’d.