The city sleeps cradled In anguished, arbitrary dreams. In the mornings the silence gets bigger by the barking of dogs And the roads remain bare as despair. Your identification with a corpse both soothes and horrifies you. The young and the old are easy victims Of Death which is no longer Something that comes only to others. Everywhere we are lined up, like grains Of dust to reach the neck of the hour glass. Apocalypse is no longer a word just heard.