at the right angle

there is no silence through the day
the sounds of work are very loud
those workers seem to form a crowd
we cannot hear what they say
the excavator breaks the clay
about the trees there is no shroud
the walls arise both brown and proud
the pipes are laid out on the way
inside the voices are still clear
not from this place nor yet so far
all things are different yet the same
there's not yet stillness in the air
it's far too bright to see a star
life at this hour is not a game