20 Dec 98 | Puncture: Survival

A man in an old blue car, behind the rubble of concrete,
stretching out his arms to disprove his punctured tyres;
Sugar crystals, over bodies with small dead insects,
reflecting the rusted iron bridge.
White embroided handkerchief,
resting over operating table with sleeping, unjust corpses.
News channels showing lines of dull reflections over pavements of empty streets,
recording every step; White men, with surgeons laugh,
concealing scary disfigured arms in huge,
long pockets; Things wrapped in red silk sheets, like television sets…
ready for a freefall.
Secret underground tunnels, with fields above dry without water.
Herds of men and women swimming there,
to catch hold every single raindrop before all of it dissolves.
Hot, boiling pots with mud houses; Net mending zombies with sown,
sealed eye-flaps;
Beautiful war with multiple photocopies stored away in every one of your drawers.
Hang it over the wall, with picture of your family,
                  … along with shadows of your chest.