On the occasion of my last afternoon
In paradise lost
In these hundred years of solitude,
Silence is our crime
And the punishment, it’s plain
In the dogs of war
In our life,
written all on the leaves of grass
as sour as the grapes of wrath,
No surprises, tho’;
Do we know why the caged birds sing?
We are the dead men walking,
Footnoted with large fonts in the almanac of the dead
All of us are fraud, we the living,
the master of the game so lame
And, the government completes
our hungry generation, with us, with no exertion
The Mariopuzoan mafias-alike rule and bind us;
Oh! Listen to the call of the wild
—Nostalgia is our anthem; warble we can for the animal farm
Where we belong—or now we can hope for
a miracle, a metamorphosis
From here, the days of our origin,
the funnily medieval species,
As we toil to hitchhike to a faraway happy galaxy.
And always are we on the road
And always lurks in the horizon our destination;
My homeland is the Lolita of old India.
So this is it, this special afternoon
Till the end of my life, with no sound and no fury,
With or without the books from the aliens
Without the books of my tongue
I’ll be gone.