Empty streets suffer long holes in the road.
Like bombs dropped, constant alarm
Halts the one or two vehicles in the city.
Torn flags wave in the nauseous winds
While the lower castes take the prints of criminals.
Spendthrift generals pick the pockets of children
As roaming soldiers prepare new ground.
On Sundays, the banks close
And the churches throw open their doors
To catch all the shrapnel into town-planned tinkering
Pockets, passages, crevices and corners
With papers cracked over, reaching up in praise.