(Pay honor to Graham Greene, in Freetown, perhaps...) Vultures were striding on rusted tin roofs, On which rivets dropped yellow morbid tears, As he opened the window, the moldy and blistering Bathroom mirror became foggy immediately. “What a nice day!” He took the pills, and cursed. The nineteenth century's sense of shame, such as Suicide and abortion, had been forgotten for a long time, While secrets were no longer kept as secrets, And scandals were not anymore worth it to scan. All of a sudden, he amusedly recalled Once a blind mortician told him When a corpse is cremated, its belly Is swelling bigger and bigger, and inevitably blasts The guts and all those boiling sticky things out, And that was why he lost his sight. -- http://www.wretch.cc/blog/kamadevas\ --

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