The evening spreads its wings of disgust
over our expected sleep. We return home wrinkled,
counting trees, in moving containers of wood and tin.
Humid eyebrows, dust in nails. Headless.
Ears that amplify every sound, throat longing for water
- to immerse the concretes we grow within
by the day, and wait for the night, to erase
all pages of reasoning by the time the morning comes
With a blink of an eye, I slip out of reality.
Travelling through the stations of time - round
like this existence, I see mountains rising over the main road,
fire over the metro lines, rivers snaking away through our backyards,
street children flying across the streets, hungry and sad eyed and
ugly with scars on their face.
I see ghosts and men, mannequin walk,
caves inside every one of us, cars that emit, shoes that melt.
I see the sea of winds, sprouting trees over concretes, gong and chimes,
and a forlorn stage, a shadow on its white backdrop
only to lose vision when the auto stops near my office.