They move in their merry-go-rounds;
satiated,
they have little stomach for questions
though cups of misery overbrim
in the eyes of every man woman and child
sprawled out across their rounds
they have little stomach for reflections
though the faces of those they love may swim
in the cry that is bleated out
by the million lives numbed by want
overawed by hunger
The young wills, proboscis of dreams
stretched out towards the sky
are falling like wilted banana leaves
across their rounds

But they shy away, their excellencies
they ignore the constipated pleas
of a world dehydrated by the fear
that tomorrow shall have no suns

They move in their merry-go-rounds
oblivious of the grunts and groans
deflowering the laughter of our afternoons
they do not see the shrunken bellies
the harrowing faces outlining their rounds

Their headgears describe gyres
that oneday must stop
where merry-go-rounds must stop
at the broken teeth of a wheel.