A poem

Like a prisoner,

Like a trapped birds with clipped wings.

I stand behind the bars,

Looking down

My neck strained

My eyes narrowed and

Finally

I see the cement.

Some scattered dots of colour

Here and there.

Here above

People all look the same

Save a few bald men.

Suddenly

I feel my head spin

My feet struggle in mid-air.

Like a laser scanner

My eyes swept upwards

From the bottom unit

Up and further.

I see no end, no top.

Like a pillar reaching into the clouds

The columns stood firm and still.

Behind each little rectangle,

Sometimes I wonder

What are they doing?

Forty square meters,

A bed.

A chair.

A table.

I imagine each looking out from behind the bars

What are they thinking?

Like a prisoner,

like a trapped bird with clipped wings.

They raise their eyes out to the distance

only to be met with more pillars and columns

sombre in their stand-

thousands of little rectangles rising up on each side

At night

each becomes lit

weaving a picture of ten thousands lights

sparkling in the dark