It is always so humid here,
My body feels wrong
Trapped in this godforsaken city
Of concrete, of weed, of smoke
Rising up in the sky from thousands
Of unsuspecting killers.
Beg to report, sir,
I don’t like it.
The sky is sometimes the blue of your eyes
And within that moment
Lies peace.
But that moment is always blocked
By telephone wires,
By broken balconies,
By civilisation.
This will never be home.
