The sun rises to the left
A patch of gold behind
The tree still green but dusty
From the road coming apart,
The motorists honk and curse along
For me the day is inching
Like an easygoing snail
That has lost all sense of time
The shadow of the eaves
Shrinks as the sun passes
The building gasping for air,
Like the country itself
Not allowed to gather or protest
With a sacred statute all but in ruins
And leaders praising themselves for the sacrilege.
No comments:
Post a Comment