There are cities that never die.
And where my weary feet lie I see one.
Once sanctuary to natural wonders: of
towering luscious trees like narra and
acacia. The canopy of which shades
little insects – red fiery ants, bugs, praying
mantis, butterflies of rainbow hues. Where
birds of different feathers nestle. Plants and
flowers scatter. Blooming to color the ground
as canvass painted with pastel. Native.
And appealing. Fresh and refreshing.
When time passes. There are still trees
and shades – now made of metals. Almost
touching the skies. They hide people – dyed
with different traits. Some sweats in their field.
Some trades flesh for life. There are
saints; hypocrites. Indeed, they are colorful.
Above are birds: giants carrying people
to places. Below are similar oversize bugs.
The grounds are flourishing with colorful grass
and vegetation. But the texture and smell,
they differ. Plastics, rubbers, steels, papers.
Stinking like hell. Polluting the world.
This is a city that never dies.
Because it lives without a heart.
