snowy summits old in story

slow hum of old machines marking a time
for acting swiftly before day turns loud
some distant echo of the morning crowd
the walls are red under the ancient grime
the moment passes for it is sublime
and then the waiting ones with their heads bowed
step forward only when they've been allowed
a rising sun will not burn off the slime
instead we wait and wonder what we've done
to set the formal boundaries of grace
before we make our way down the last hill
the answer is we've neither lost nor won
still must we make for others their true place
and little shall be subject to our will