It’s the final burial ground –

the place where they go to die;

lapping dirt-brown waves;

tourist couples bidding goodbye.

Ships slicing through soundlessly,

as smog adorns the sky.

A pigeon hobbles by on its stump,

while a gull lets out a mournful cry;

beside benches, an old man holds out his cup;

on the cobblestones stands a solitary bride.

A homeless girl leans agai...

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Do you have colour in your cheeks?

Do you go to sleep remembering what you seek?

Do you recall what it was like to be corporeal,

or does it not feel like that at all?

Do you wake to find your pillow wet at night?

Do you see the wolves congregating under moonlight,

and howl at your own stupidity for staying inside?

Do you stare at the files on your desk each weekday

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