The nation sleeps in bouts of insomnia;

they wrap a veil around their eyes

—because conscience can be a bright itch sometimes—

and pretend to sleep.

Someplace else, there are several dead children

buried under a cumulus of games of politics,

and men with faint trails of moustaches loading guns

for the next day's conquests.

Yet, there's still a speech to be written tomorrow,

and promises to give

while the count never stops.

Crows with clipped wings

haunt cities in shades of gray,

as earth's belly all the same grows full with prey.