Golden dust swirls around us
in a smothering force that sways on its way,
our clothes, bloated, seek a different story to tell,
surrendered under the whims of the wind.
They hypnotize with a swinging pendulum,
as they call,
to yield our secrets to the moment’s lure.
In this place, there is no clap or fine,
no shame or win to front your will,
only a proud eagle that flies on top of us,
for untold prophecies that have not yet come to life.
An uprising stream is growing In the underground brooks,
It seeks outlet through the cracks,
as it floods the surface with white foam.
The city whistles like a teapot, bursting in tears,
while its youth seeks release from a windowless room,
Marks of contempt on shoulders that tank,
for undue hands that mess with life’s cloth.
