lazy flies all hovering above
the magistrate, he puts on his gloves
and he looks to the clouds
all pink and disheveled
there must be some blueprints,
some creed of the devil
inscribed in our minds
a hideous game
vanishes in thin air
the vanity of slaves
who wants to be there?
to sweep the debris
to harness dead-horses
to ride in the sun
a life of confessions
written in the dust
out in the mangroves the mynah birds cry