Lamentations

This city, once filled with people became a widow, now finally a corpse. This road, a string of asphalt, dangles like a stray limb from an autopsy table. Oily water in gutters, the tears that ran down her cheek have turned cold. There is nobody left to console her. Malcontent lovers are the city’s enemies. She no longer weeps because we killed her.

The streets are filled with millions of glass bottles. People drink as they walk upon those roads of mottled skin. Their hands are sheet white and their too pale faces turned away. Perhaps some of us have also died and have not yet realised. A toast to euthanasia with a glass of formaldehyde, this is not a party but a wake.

In our apartments, apart from everyone including ourselves we can still hear footsteps and cries through thin walls. Toiling in the bedroom, the flower of our youth, or staggering under crates. There are sad hearts everywhere. You beyond my understanding bring us back and let us find our home.