You are one of Capitalism's lesser known prizes.
Placed beside opulent office towers,
the money markets and magic technology
you seem terribly small, insignificant,
yet are one of its triumphs nevertheless.
The commerce of war revels in debris,
destruction twinned to profits, and human
misery a bright currency for the speculators
in death.
As you slouch beneath sickly lights,
shaded by the smell of burnt cardboard
and gasoline, can you feel your body
erupting with soldiers or tourists,
soiled and broken like a balloon
as your blood rages like the colour of stone?
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