Metaphor of My Wasteland

The chorale of the balladist
in the Akropolis
is the metaphor
of my wasteland.
There is communion
in the silence
of the millstones
and in the dimness
of the eyes.
There is union
in the absence
of songs
and in the ravages
of the sun.
Restless run of the unrest
at the polling booths
is for rice.
My people pant after rice.
The beggars and the abandoned
street children grope for oil lamps
as darkness draws the veil
over their plea to the state.
Patrol wagons rid the streets
of probing eyes of the poor.
There is bond
in solitude
and in the limits
when the heart envy the birds.
The loneliness of the homeless
is the metaphor of exile.