There is a rush hour
In the city of my heart
Here people see
Each other as competition
And every dead bird or dark alley
Is a harbinger, a premonition.
Everything comes at the wrong hour
Taxis, jeeps, the tired faces
Heading towards tired places
Deep inside is the insidious machine
The three headed dog, the selfish gene
The one who denies death
The one who craves
And the one who slaves for his breath

There is a rush hour that never stops
An endless coming and going
Trapped inside the gaze of the cyclops
Where there is no wine for soothing
Here, the destination is what matters
The journey is a waste of time
You wait until everyone scatters
And every attempt at rest is a crime