Fixed

I hear the shrieks and shrill voices from miles away,

The sound of a trumpet-like instrument.

The city is quiet; everyone is indoors, screaming at their own television set.

One stadium bears individuals of exorbitant wealth and eleven players,

Hoping to make their spectators proud.

They will win, of course, at only 5:42 in the afternoon, I know, they will win.

They know they will win.

Or do they? Are they aware of the politics that bend

Far lower than any whore is willing to go?

They’re all there, the names, the labels, the puppeteers.

Occasionally I hear a bomb-like blast –

The salvo continues; no one died.

From my window I glimpse the sea. It’s comforting,

But even that is starting to grey,

Even that is being affected by the stupidity of mankind,

Their idol worship, their careless greed.

We’ve done too much damage.

Remorse, we may have, but it shall no longer suffice,

For soon there shall stand a mound of plastic in the sea, the water shall rise,

Dead fish shall fill the streets and we shall climb to the highest floor, in the tallest building,

And starve ourselves away.

Maybe I’m wrong; maybe the passionate screams can be justified.

Maybe it shall inspire people to postpone their impending doom.

We cannot ask for forgiveness; there is no state of purgatory;

We might as well plunge into the sewage grey of shining scales and gag on our own faux pas.