Saturday, 4 June 2016

He rambles
Shares secrets with the air
The voices he converses with, unheard
In vain he tries still
To heal the screams of lives buried under the city
On whose nests and blood it was built.
Mirror shows nothing pleasing
The world spats pity
An insane tramp.

Sight veiled by curtains of blood frozen in time
He sees remnants of what once were
In everything that beams today
Iron rods of confinement in spotless glossy glass panels
Graves under plastered roads.
Blind. Insane.

At times he stops walking
Shouts. Hurls abuses.
At cement blocks and bricks that stood on homes
At wheels that ran over hearts
At us who never are haunted by those screams.
Haunted, not. Us.
By the hungry little feet
That walks more than they can
Selling their childhood
By the street hawkers’ voices
Sounding a hundred years old
Echoes of the abandoned well
Choking on thoughts of survival and debts
By the lives that withered
Without waiting for winter to fall
By the hands that wilted their being
Tearing the last layer of skin
That would keep them warm
To let them die in sleep
Cold meat frozen alive

At times he stops walking
To look at the sky
Hurls abuses
For dying a little by each night
A little less dark
A little less large
Hiding the stars that once he counted.

Insane. Haunted. Blind.
He rambles
Shares secrets with the air
Laughs watching us burn effigies of ourselves
For not being what we pretend to be.