Alisdair Gray

We live and have lived
And die and will die in this city
And millions have been,
And will be forgotten,
Each with a backbone and heart
We struggle to keep,
Before we are folded in sleep
And go rotten.
And most, before dieing, give blood
to a son or daughter
And when the bones of these children
crumble, remain as words in a document
Names cut on stones, otherwise we
are all a procession as featureless as water
And some sit late filling books
With tall words 'til the birds whistle,
Trying to see what we are and what we wanted to be.