The Final Whistle

The impudent
Stagger sleeplessly

As crowds scatter slowly
Like shipwrecks forever floating.

It’s like they’re expecting
The motion of the sea
To fly away like birds
Towards the sound of fresh thunder.

In the darkest corners
Of the dizziest eyes
In this city of any direction,

This seething night of roasting meats,
Of summer anguish and arid landscapes,

Sinks into the pith
Of its old dying factories,
The mulch of wasted trying,
An industry retired.

Now there’s nothing but
Dense flocks of moping
Where proud cries once echoed,

Desperate incarnations
All shadowy like sundials,

Lost down twilight’s strange dirt tracks,
Scattered like rotten seeds in the breeze,

Grieving for fun.

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