I hear the changing rhythms
of their pulse, speech, steps
As they finger the trigger,
as they grasp the knife.
I clock the surge of passions
in their race with death.
Outside the house
were beggars, thugs, maniacs, thieves.
An alien world
as perceived through curtained windows.
Seen from afar,
the fires, riots, car wrecks, brawls
Made me recoil
and threatened the night while I slept.
Nor found I joy
in revels, circuses and feats
My skin thin, too,
for the rocks, the drums, the stampedes.
They came marching by the billions,
armies of ants.