Death rends nothing which has not already been stolen.
Blood seems like orange juice.
It spills out of people like a sack which has been slashed open
And ripe fruits picked from the groves of pashas are inside
Pulsing red and juicy from the sun
But fattened on blood and greed.
Those fruits have an unwholesome life.
Corpulent, wet mouths close around the poisonous globes
Shining, sticky, cupped in a fat, brown hand
Pale finger nails shine like pearls in the sun.
Even their finger nails are painted with the riches they've acquired.
Why is it that these people who feed on the city
Are able to control life, fate, destiny?
He doesn't know.