You do not hear it The lone has a singing Like silken threads of the wind When it walks through the city Its robes draping Over walls and as shadows Darkening the noise Our legs dangling, We breathe in smoke Dust and traffic talk Nothing is beautiful but we stay Nothing is as we had fancied Everything gentle slinks away Revolted and charitable And we run our fingers Along jagged concrete edges Waiting as if For something Waiting as if For something Sorrow comes A tender companion And leads the night away to obscurity I dream of laughter Tumbling as pebbles into terror Clumsy and crude, bluntly myself I stumble through myself Searching as if For something Doors open and torches are lit The labyrinth unwinds perhaps Or starts to, slow and sleek As if in tune to the song And almost the spectre of reticence Is cast aside for rebellion
But then, the morning comes And I am a tyrant again