A broken mirror, shattered and dispersed,
Reflects mangled images of stooges
And incoherent looters of national treasures.

The soul of a nation, so broken, so dispersed,
Plunges head above waters into distressed,
Calamitous caverns of the deep.

Bubbles rustle from tumults fomented through
Throats of riparian greed, when the fishy plots
Form restless waves atop mirror-like stale rills.

But broken mirrors reflect the ruins of a culture.
Dark side of the moon shows its stupor from the
Poisoned wines of promiscuous bliss.

We dance to an orgy of incestuous ceremonies,
Noting from the corner of our eyes the amused
Graces of the night sky jeering at the coarseness

Of our primitivity. Time stands in witness to our
Destiny, carved from sand rubbles, when the stench
Of a polluted desert drained a convalescing oasis.

We celebrate colours of buntings and the killing spree
Of ravenous serpents within us. Yet the yellowness of
Our eyes does not warn us of our jaundiced culture.

A broken mirror reflects rage and delirium.
Wrinkles form from the squirming of the face,
And images split within a convoluted grimace.

Death comes in fragments.
Furrows laugh at our courage to envision the
Glories of the past, through which our lamentations broaden.

Broken mirrors and sad faces
Stand between gap-toothedness of dim, heartless,
Whimsical waste of morning’s brevity.

And the shortness of breath drops at each corner
Of the heart, to resume the hasty call of the lone
Squid, as witnessed by the disasters of the deep.