submerged in the centre-ville.
The sun was shining up
walls are full of nice graffiti,
beautiful, aesthetic words garnish them.
Onlookers come and read,
to pay respect.
The content is on the modern discourse
running on the stage;
peace, disarmament, global warming
throw up as oeuvres of
firsthand painters and writers,
while off the stage,
on the real dais
it’s about striking the iron when it’s hot
like the smiling star up there.
Gloom and darkness prevail
as the plat du jour
same recipe, day after day
work doesn’t stop.
Meetings on peace
helping the poor continue
much like the sun
which cannot not rise and set
or like the paintings on the walls
ornamented with words
on the stage
bushwhacked by the other field,
the falsest reality will never yield.