In the faces walking dogs, wetting lawns,
When most have given up, confused at what it was,
Pulled downward by the invisible call
Of the fallen angels inside the screens,
Charmed by the ghosts of the oppressed's reveries
As if they ever were allowed to play,
As if they're playing even now, and not
Some wishful fantasy, of people larger,
More unknown than the ones that they see,
Who make a difference, without touching.
O Gods replaced by electricity,
How the wind blows through the trees like before
And the sun still descends in a blue sky
That reveals, in all its clarity, no key.
The screams are from the houses, not the trees,
The once-proud priests are drugged and fat, released
Like petals to a breeze from green columns.
