I can't conjure up beauty in this place--
birds detonate, rose petals droop and fall,
and butterflies pop like soap bubbles, replaced
by fluorescent lights and gray, carpeted walls.
Aeolian hymns with their sweet, airy sounds
are drowned out by the copier's clank and buzz;
Euterpe is no longer to be found
down here, and I don't think she ever was.
Satyrs and nymphs are hiding here, no doubt,
and disciples of Dionysus too;
but they cower, afraid to be found out,
and don't frolic--there's too much work to do.
The keyboards clack, the flickering screens entrance,
and nothing here may bloom, or sing, or dance.
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