Over the hill, the priest weeps.
Under the bridge, the foreman dies.
At the station, the lover leaves.
The millions march into mace.
The cameras whirl into dizzy aim.
The bloody stains cake and dry.
You can hear the blood beat.
You can feel the voices cry.
You can watch the horses cringe.
The sidelines are elegant.
The frontlines are shifting.
The storylines are corrupted.
The sparrow tweets a symbol
And a Call is Answered.
The Answer drops into the ears
of the mad crowd where it
resonates, fades and dies.
A child is born into a favela,
plays under the guava tree
and learns to listen to the breeze.