in mockery of time, the old pillars sang:
how even the pigeons refuse to perch on their arms.
how even the sun refuse to linger on their skins.
how long is this unseen hall? how deep is this wound?
run away! maybe the hammers offer more.
maybe city lights will listen, or in darkened alleys whispers be heard.
shout at the top of your ancient lungs,
poets will listen and perhaps the tainted-women too.
for do you not share the same fate?
[Photo by Nikki Ayubo]