I can see clearly now
The shack is gone
I can see the stars
Quivering as if
Afraid of the dark

I can see
The baleful moon
With clouds blowing
Across its distraught face,
Lonely as if
Bereaved

I can smell the freshness
Of the garbage
The persistent breeze,
Like the tax man,
Insistent on its demands
On my body warmth.

Now I can see the dawn
Painting the sky
Blood red
The early warning
Of the visiting hunger

I can feel the sun
Teasing me
With its morning warmth
That soon turns
To a scorching hate.

Now the compound
Is silent and mute,
I can hear distant calls
From lost children: a generation
With no past nor future:
A mere memory lapse.