A cold withering boredom,
Rises over the mortified vale,
From the edges of our witness, the silent zabarwan,
To the trenches of our secrets burying meadows,
Under puddles of incessant rain waters,
From dripping roof tops that sob like an old woman,
To drab, wet bathed sulking buildings,
Rising from tendrils of grey smoke,
And creating strange images from head raising chimneys,
Then crawling and erasing silently.

A cold withering fatigue,
Clamps our heads like tight old caps,
Secluding our ears from old cries, older voices,
Blinding on us any signs of the breathless around.
Those choked by expired teargas shells,
And hoarded in stacks to strangulate rebellions.

A cold wearing smoke,
That makes us shut windows tight,
Refusing to hear the fleeing night steps,
Of those who came to die for us,
And were given up by spying shadows,
Then slept unknown under Narcissus mounds.

Smoke that stings in our faces,
Like stinging needles of a bitter frost,
Like guilt of an unspoken crime,
Lifting red veins over burning skin,
In concertina imprints on frightened faces.

Defiant across a drab choked skyline,
Staring upwards on a silently sobbing night,
Burning smoke from our soul chimneys,
On ceaseless, darker, fearful nights.