In this jungle of concrete

Tons of iron and paper flowers

There is no wilderness

Imprisoned minds and souls.

Bullets of ink-black fumes

Piercing the blue sky

Smoking chimneys and

Wildfires that keep bursting.

Rainbows of cemented flyways

Fireflies trapped inside

Steely bulbs of the eternal

Illumination of the nights.

In this jungle of concrete

A biodiversity of possessions

With the only sounds of

Cars honking and screeching.

Men in machines run

Through, chasing the

Ebullient trill of

The cash counters.

From the concrete

Into the concrete

Making themselves

The concrete.