On its feverish pace to fortune
the city sheds its last dregs of soul;
Every avenue a gateway to Mammon
a piece of land a stage for mafia’s role.

Back in yore parks were a rendezvous
for flawless wind, whirlpools of love;
Now the leatherhunt is for cyberparks
the day’s light dying in dawnless cove.

All’s well in the changing hues of market;
‘Help yourself’ the credo, though Jack’s tale
seizes the ears with an ominous ring.
And layers of pain does Jill’s tale unveil.

On gruelling asphalt he outlives his
skills as quickly as his calories;
He must find his shack, let concrete
eat into the sap of the green, bounteous.

As mushrooming blocks mock the sky
people come closer, yet avert a glance;
They are islands on the streets, alive
more to squalls than jasmine’s fragrance.

This city is dead, no funeral dirge.
On its face, the scroll of the mirage.