Grey-blue pastel strokes brush the sun behind,
Leaving just enough light to the ground
To see the city, see the city with its toxicity;
Concrete jungle with vrooming sounds,
Soulless machines, and in them souls with wounds.
There’s no greenness behind greyness,
But meaningless parks as mere illusions
To keep our primal instincts alive –
Keeping them machine-fed, coma-like.
The art of nature’s hard to realise.
Parks are the new heart of the city,
Us – not even feeling pity,
Going there to fetch our nurture,
So-called being in the nature
As hypocrite machines.
Is there other machines lying
To themselves as we do –
By laying plants surrounding
While concretely it’s not
The green we went through?
How come then on the sky,
On that grayish sunbeam
Made of pastel and bluish dye;
We’re still a part of this sight,
Human machines as we are.