(Pay honor to Graham Greene, in Freetown, perhaps...)
Vultures were striding on rusted tin roofs,
On which rivets dropped yellow morbid tears,
As he opened the window, the moldy and blistering
Bathroom mirror became foggy immediately.
“What a nice day!” He took the pills, and cursed.
The nineteenth century's sense of shame, such as
Suicide and abortion, had been forgotten for a long time,
While secrets were no longer kept as secrets,
And scandals were not anymore worth it to scan.
All of a sudden, he amusedly recalled
Once a blind mortician told him
When a corpse is cremated, its belly
Is swelling bigger and bigger, and inevitably blasts
The guts and all those boiling sticky things out,
And that was why he lost his sight.
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