The Waste Land.

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water."
    
The rubble and desolation of the old bus depot at Shrubhill somehow raises the specter of T.S. Eliot.