Poem of Selfhood

The child of my city
is burning alive.
Born of silent hope;
never will it survive.

Raised high the flags
of water
(without proof of nation)
over rumours of
its inconceivable dawn.

Round eyed wanderers
up the smell of voices.
is free of spiritual law;
evil is made
out of external luxuries.

All remain standing for the
anthem of broken
windows and burnt shells.