It is these hours
That few words are spoken
The lurking tall towers
Confounded by no one looking
Stillness among the waves
Frighten the infants up town
The crashing of camouflaged caves
And the blunder of frowns
The beacon of revelation
Overwhelm the township's thoughts
Coaches haul the impatient
The cessation of sound never fought
Empty cries in dark, cold cellars
Pierce the vacant, unadorned air
Parched voices of workinge tellers
Divert tea parties on handmade chairs
Strangers spit thirst against side streets
And deserted drunkards dance in monsoons
Affinity at the soles of quick-paced feet
As pristine chapels hum cheap-sounding tunes
Subtle semaphores ceasing to exist
At the fault of those who never stop to ask
A town degenerating at the obstruction of its own fist
Until it is too late, and all will be in the past.