Filth

The sluggish river crawls across the land.
The ugly clouds reflect its grey complexion.
And, like a bottle in a drunkard’s hand,
These waters will take only one direction.
The river does not listen to entreaties;
It is moving
Towards the sea.

An oil-drum insults the early morning.
Half on the bank, half poised above the flow.
Pearlescent, putrid oil-drops are forming;
They bulge, then fall towards the depths below.
A coloured sheen is left upon the surface.
A bitter rainbow,
Pointing to the sea.

If horses cantered down beside the water,
And dipped white heads to slake their thirst,
The heads that rose would be corrupt.

So you!
Who are not fools, who would be kings,
Who claim to carry the dreams of men.
Why do you foul and foul again the water and the air?
Your smoke infects the lungs, and turns to mucus.
And I, for one, was not aware
That choking on our effluence
Is humanity’s noble dream.
You strangle fertile lands and leave them arid.
Silt joins the turgid stream.

The sordid river bloats, becomes tumescent;
A swollen phallus pumping mankind’s seed.
Decay will beget decay, the oil is iridescent
The succour of a womb is all it needs.
The river does not listen to entreaties;
Who then will save us
Should it spill into the sea?

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