The window rattles
and I wonder how many more butterflies
must stir their wings, before these streets are
torn apart. I wonder where

the homeless are tonight,
where the shopkeeper has retired to
in his now vacant marital bed. There's
sorrow on every doorstep,

there's fatigue of work, of a lazy mind.
It's nothing new, but borrowed and blue;
you must work, work, work to feel empowered,
you must pay, pay, pay for your freedom.

My patience rattles
and I stir wings to leave for Costa Rica,
for anywhere at all than this bleak British land,
torn from me so long ago;
and now is left asunder.