the machine of the world sways in the deafening traffic.
On its daily rounds, at eighteen hundred hours,
it skims, tries and devours all bits and pieces of ours.
As it spits them in sacks, the detached shadows connect
to second-hand bodies, at hand as recycled flasks.
The city rocks its dreams, and the crunched life acts redeemed.
Those who don’t see sleep. And those who see don’t take heed.
The wasted time pretends to go past, only to come back at last
even more poignantly on the wake of our guilty unconscionability -
as a dethroned king, a recurring bad dream or some chronic infirmity.
Among debris and loads of muck rolls on the garbage truck.
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