Death Comes Too Late

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.