(Warnings from the Ghostly Voice)
My head is a faraway mountain
Covered in grey clouds of the evening time,
Covered in hair strands with fading vigour:
Give me some concentrates and supplements
Against the rickets of these labour nagging.
Let me concentrate!
Tell the ones who shout,
That my ears are weak and aching
Like drying trees dying
Under the stampede of Harmattan.
Do they not remember
That my ears were once visitors
Of the doctor’s room
In medicine houses over the seas?
Do they not remember?
Advise them to keep their voices low,
Low like the moans of a cheating wife
So I may remain so much like dregs
Concentrated at the bottom of my watery rule.
Already like stars,
The festival of thumbs, boxes and papers
Is twinkling with seductive looks
Rousing my mind into a polling ecstacy,
But isn’t it still for the sake of the Marxists?
Oh, my tongue! The masses…
Don’t they know?