The city that never stops..
It moves on thousands
of wheels;
Speaks in millions of
sounds.
It carries tankers of
oil
Loaded with tears and
greased by the sweat of a million hands.
The night is a few
hours of nightmares and alarms
That tells you that
though the darkness still prevails
The city moves
To the rhythm of the
wheels of trains
With swollen limbs
and the body wrapped in bandages of gauze
The blood still
oozing from the wounds, a day old and not yet healed.
The city will build
no monuments.
Her children have no
time to look up
From picking up the
rags and bones—the souvenirs of misery.
Her history is being
scripted by millions of survivors
Who transcribe the
letters the unknown postman delivers in their hands.
They spend a lifetime
trying to read
In the brief respite
they have from their toil,
Reading between the
lines
Whatever that makes
sense.
They cannot restore
the lost narratives of their own past;
They cannot find the missing links.
A dusty film settles
over all
And each new day
plays false
To all the hopes and
dreams.
The city is a
faithful mistress,
Content to live in
the hind-quarters
Of squalor and
patient love.
The night never comes
with silent steps.
Thousands of demons
march to its song and the city lies crushed and maimed
Under the nails of
their shoes.
Tomorrow will be yet
another day.
The fumes of venomous
garbage will cover the sky and challenge the sun.
The sun-rays
filtering through the thick mask of treachery
Will desperately
reach the tottering body.
The city will be
grateful for the gift of life.
The city rises to the
call of the dawn,
Resilient, new-born,
awakened, but hardly aware,
The city will roll
again
And go back to fill
up the pages of the scroll of the history
That time will erase
again.
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