If some Mother could see this now,
And know that her child slept here,
In a tight shed of death and decay,
What would she say?
How would you answer her tears?
Would you dare to meet her gaze?

This is a place of eternal sleeping,
Of wrapping dreams in asbestos,
Cockroaches and leeches reign here,
Those who weep here are ghosts,
The fingerprint of torture marks them,
They have no name, only merciless pain.

Through the window a waxy light leaks in,
Casting wispy streaks across a damp floor,
Each step squelching on the moist moss,
The air is stained with invisible cancer,
This is a cell where Death throws his dice,
The squares of life are fragmented here.

*** ends, broken bottles, needles, empty cans,
Torn rags, and shoes with holes and no laces,
Peeling plaster, and electrical veins exposed,
Razor blades clogged with bloodied hair,
Hope, broken and cracked, smoked and gone,
Fear lurks in every corner, all teeth and claws.

Four claustrophobic walls, doors crushing in,
Held together with the glue of desperation,
This is a house, a bed, a self-made coffin,
No radiators of home and comfort here,
No hope, no form, no fixed abode, no nothing,
They who snuggle here are by poverty ravaged.

Still, through the bitter hunger,
Through the dirt and the daily thirst,
Through the headline of stagnant lies,
Upon the table something yet shines,
In a world of black and white,
The colour of Truth brightly shines.