Ophthalmology of the Third Kind

I turn a blind eye
to my ophthalmologist’s prophecy
and insist on seeing the world
as it really is. (An empty train ―
blood, sweat and tears ― a journey
with no destination, only towards
soullessness and fear.)

There isn’t much hope
for any extravagant promises,
on earth as in heaven,
of kingdoms of righteousness. (The innocents
are being mown down as we speak,
as we eat, as we watch the news and sleep.
Mowers are lethal war machines.)

You see alchemy in reverse:
all your banknotes discarded as scrap,
which buys nothing other than
a soggy loaf of your daily bread. (Hallowed
be their names ― those who are always ahead ―
and nobody now remembers the stark warning:
“Mind the gap!”)

Mothers weep while babies starve,
and high-flying executives are busy burying
their heads in charts and graphs,
calculating their ten-digit largesse. (Even dogs
under the master’s table can eat scraps,
but not those who have to cross borders,
who have a foreign face, in permanent regret.)

Ophthalmology of the Third Kind

Who now is the Father?
Who the Son? Who the trespassers?
Who the trespassed? No ―
don’t expect answers! (Sins of the fathers,
rucksacks on sore backs, all booby-trapped;
you can’t escape, you’re tempting fate!
Now the doors will close ― it’s been long foretold.)