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No sun,
Now rubble,
The collected debris of memories
Echoes
An anquished ring through the corridors of Manhattan Canyons:
Where are we going?
From where
To where
Do we step?
December... a month... a day... a time
logged on the fresh pages of history...
the first and only real entry... a league
...a new league... a microscopic legion of
men bearing witness to the birth,
unfurling its colors on an industrial land to detract
from the former failure...
The National Association is dead,
Long live the National League!
From rubble to rubble,
From dust to dust,
New fortresses
Stretch their fledgling arms
And puncture the sky
With abbreviated zeal.
Like so many transients
Awaiting a derailed train,
The others come
And never go.
The American Association is dead
The Union Association is dead
The Players League is dead.
All gone,
All dead,
Long live the National League!
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