I read the morning papers
to find our kin converted into numbers;

I glance at those watery eyes,
hear those disseminated wails
they are our own, aren’t they.

Every finger, every toe
a story and a woe;

If tears could drown,
the people and a town,
the ocean would’ve frowned.

Our imagination has run dry
and reality has emerged,
with humans who were once beings.
for once we’d rather been fishes.
alas: fate always doesn’t grant our wishes.