The sinful playacting of the leaders insists on
crowing over empty victories,
and words without being versed are cremated
on the despoiled landscape;
Elsewhere, night steps up on every toe and hangs fire.
All roads and lanes want bold footprints,
it will not matter whose,
the wind’s shrilling summons convivial light
on the blurry faces and their doleful cries
struggle to reach far and beyond.
Under the shade of sodium vapour lamps,
bodies morph from poor to rich, living to dead,
the rush of blue lights distils on the discoloured skin
of the mannequins; the city scrawls and scratches
on the marbles of the palace and cenotaph.