There’s a part of the world
not many get to see
like the underside of a pearl
deep in a black sea.

The shadow of its form
covers continents in clouds
while a multicoloured storm
turns halos to shrouds.

And there’s cities made of Night,
there the long-forgotten sing
of a time when there was light
and day and Sun and spring.

But now the seasons mutely wilt
as flowers torched in shade
and souls are soft as silt
born to quielty fade.

You see the faces slowly melt
from hope’s greedy miracle,
expressions worn like endangered pelts
in the darkness satirical.

Every now and then a sound
like water freely rushing
somewhere underground
is actually humanity blushing.

For the sound is the sound of hunger;
one by one they feast
on themselves and then each other
and create the most violent peace.

Veterans of the phenomena
exiled to the basement of Earth
round and round the mandala 
till the circle diverts.

And the cycle is never-ending
like the wild migration of shadows
sobbing blind and blending
into rivers, trees, volcanos 

and become us

when we are ready.