The shoulders
of our brothers are hunched, and their
muscles are drawn, as if their bodies were
shrinking and wished to shrink out of sight.
And a word steals into our mind, as we look
upon our brothers, and that word is fear.
There is fear hanging in the air of the
sleeping halls, and in the air of the streets.
Fear walks through the City, fear without name,
without shape. All men feel it and none dare to speak.
We feel it also, when we are in the Home of the
Street Sweepers. But here, in our tunnel,
we feel it no longer. The air is pure
under the ground. There is no odor of men.
And these three hours give us strength
for our hours above the ground.
Our body is betraying us, for the Council
of the Home looks with suspicion upon us.
It is not good to feel too much joy nor to be glad
that our body lives. For we matter not and
it must not matter to us whether we live or die,
which is to be as our brothers will it.
But we, Equality 7-2521, are glad to be living.
If this is a vice, then we wish no virtue.
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