New York, the Dada Capital

I am looking down on Central Park and recall from half-a-century ago in a small town in Northern Romania a tall, white-haired man proclaiming his poem, “The Colors Red and Black.”  Gazing over the park, I remember those Stalinist era verses:

                                    In New York, everything is beautiful.

                                    Heroes come, heroes go.

                                    Children, born for Sing-Sing,