There

Cities are nothing more

Than oceans in pockets

And hidden by walls

Deep in the emerald hills.

They sing in the voices of

Flutes but are poisoned

By the greed of factory smoke

While the ashen children, long gone,

Dance in the winds of flower petals

Of seasons past and the birds,innocent,

Are strewn with bullets from hands dyed

In wars that are fought for the children and by the children

Who are nothing more than joyful shadows

Sitting, Playing, Drowning and

Now swallowed by oceans of concrete cities.