The cranes are not gazelles. They do not drink at streams and they are not peaceful. This confession has been uttered at the center of the cave by a statue leaning against its own adolescence, “Never again will the bridges sow the seas with walking for the pale and fat river has got the grip of prophecy on the land.” For once, they cried over a lack of shared timing, dripping their tears like seeds over fields of rubbish. They concentrated on the bright debris with inaccuracy. Sprouted then miniature buildings still wet with soda. Mothers last words went underheard, not even forgotten. Demographic strata transformed by concrete back into mounds and luminescent streaks. The orb ever consecrates the worthless ruins with their fantasy of second sight. And my blindness ran coursing through the infamous water with the bending wires twisted up like radioactive script. The land is all flayed upon, a skeletal mesh of corroding filaments. The architecture blisters while sunset unrolls its aluminum foil sleeves.