Riding along an endless stretch of pitch
Black tar, melting under the bleaching heat,
I came upon two boys engaged in play.
Innocent they were, and yet my eye
Was drawn towards one child, I know not which —
The elder boy, perhaps, who hid discreetly
In his vest a symbol of decay:
A knobbled shard of concrete, chipped and dry,
Abandoned by the roadside in a ditch —
A remnant of some crumbling office suite.
The eldest, as I passed by on my way,
Wound back his wrist and let the mortar fly
I dodged in vain: the reflex came too late.
He watched me fall, eyes filled with pure hate.