Under the same canopy

It is through the iron grille that we see the full moon tonight, through the floral concrete patterns that we smell the cultured, sieved, and polluted air tonight; we see the trees in a deprived state of solitary abandon; and then mix these images with the drone of the electric wires above, the cacophony of human commotion, the sight of admonition of towers towering above these trees and lurking as a challenge to the yet-unconquered skies, the sight of human needs, the sight of right angles that menacingly threaten to pierce through the chest of the thin air and wipe out the fractals, of things both harmful and tender constructed together, a pervading wail that comes from the crores of dead souls underneath the tarmac and the concrete, of a smell of a large funeral pyre of all that we produced for all that we burnt away.

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