It Screams Survival

Here where
Diseased
Masks slip
Onto shapes
Soft and
Weary,

Paintings
Of mirrors
Are stolen
And hung
From their
Ceilings,

Gardens
Grow
With freedom
And bread
Is bought
With
Tears.

The place
Is now,
The people
Hard,
The language
Brittle,

Yet the
Saffron
Dust that blows,
Is as
Golden
As any sun.

It is a
Place of
Here
Where
An empty
Palace
Blesses
Every sacred
Street on the
Walk home,

It screams
Survival.