in the chill of the night
hunger, despair and death surge like a shadowy tide
speaking in tones quieter than quiet
the sound of a siren slashes the canvas of black silence like a sword

a cigarette glows in a corner
somebody is there
probably homeless
a garbage can falls
a shin is bruised
a curse in the dark
a baby cries in the park
cold is the blanket of night
sounds of sex from an open window
sobs of a grieving widow
a symphony of pain and pleasure

the morning freezes in the winds blowing across the trees
lazily the sun climbs out of the rolling green hills
to admire its reflection on the tears on my pillow
crystal droplets of sorrow

bare feet of hunger dance in the mud
cattle roam the planes chewing cud
the laughter of children fades
the sound of spades play a melancholic symphony
death has no love and no sympathy
mothers weep for the dead buried deep
men dance and chant to mask the sorrow within

this is an old tale
as current and real as each approaching dawn
it tells more than it reveals
a world gripped by deadly diseases
asserted racism, bigotry and greed
Smouldering embers of universal hatred
that we ourselves fan into a flame

bombarded with hate that mates in the shadows to seal our fate
inner daydreams turn to despair and hazily apprehended reality
We are trapped in this seething hive of freaks, junkies and lowlifes

somewhere beneath our scattered imaginations
lies hope and compassion
even love
for now we flee and hunt an ambiguous enemy
the demon that is us
if it is actions that truly define a man
what sick man shaped this sick world?