Our world is a dark one.
We illuminate it with hundreds of
yellow and red and blue lamps.
Nobody knows a real face,
not even his own, as it
looked in the rare, green daylight.
Our city is a bundle of
shadows and coloured lights.
Like withered flowers on a grave
rustling in a dance with the
cold wind by night.
Nobody knows the sun or the moon.
Our souls are of melting ice.
We cool it down with fluid lies.
Or struggle on with trickling truth
in head and heart, and pebbled shoes.
Nobody knows a Holy Ghost
more good than marmalade on toast.