Tall chimneys ****** up brick red necks
their smoke black heads unblinking on the scene
for the chimneys have no eyes
no nose to smell out the waste

A small boy crosses a ***** street
his blackened face
mixed with tears and sweat
make a pattern of his features
a sign of over work
a sign of torture

Along the street a river winds its way
like a great sluggish ***** snake
its low banks brown with mud
like a rugby player after a match

The boy finds a comforting shelter
a small shack with a blanket
the patterns faded with much use
but it is comfort for the boy
as tired he falls asleep
his eyes closed his breathing quiet

Not much moves in the streets
as the red brick sentinels
blind and deaf watch on
unmoving as the night draws on