In the city of the dead, where poppies grow,
women hang clothes over unmarked tombstones,
children play at saving their lives amongst the graves
and they hide from other children, from hunger or from squads.
The city of the dead is already agonizing in the morning
and there's no-one to represent them in the United Nations.
In all cities there's an inhabited cemetery
where the dead are exiled.
In the city of the dead the bus doesn't stop,
when Death sleeps the dead will have supper in the dark.
A dead man that shivers because there it is always wintertime,
offers you a cigarette, invites you to his mausoleum.
No-one includes them in the national plan,
or in the World Bank's statistics.
In the city of the dead all the willow trees were felled,
it's building land.
The city of the dead is brimming with life
and rust through all it's doors, and over the fence around it.
The heartbeat of the dead has crossed the highway
and it's lurking around your home, wants to seat at your table.
The dead, so alive, will inhabit the palaces,
the streets and the official buildings and the Monetary Funds
From flesh and light from bygone times they dressed their skeletons,
tired of being dead,
of inhabiting your cemetery.
