Missiles like flying saucers
racing fast and making the illusory peace patterns.
Down on the earth in this metropolis
people are used to the sounds and sirens
smoke and dust
hatred and blood;
little children playing in the streets, unmindful;
the old are anyway dying
seated beneath the trees, ruminating over their past;
the young are passionate about war clouds
betting on the ground:
who wins and who loses?
Busses ply with commuters rushing like termites
loaded trucks snail through
automobiles stream, spewing bloody smoke.
Life goes on, though
with shutters down occasionally during the day
and lights go off at night
making the city dark and dry
ominous, sometimes.
Do we need time to make transitory peace with the earth?
