The Long Corridors Underneath the Cities

It could be morning, it could be night

In this long corridor of the metropolitan.

The underbelly of the megalopolis

Swollen with myriads of humans.

Down there it is livid, disinfected, air-tight.

Down there, moon and sun are worth nix.

Down there people lurk, and people change.

They lose their difference, and their age.

Down there rats, cockroaches and fungi thrive.

It is a catacomb designed for, by and alike the living.

At unpunctual intervals, a rasping breathing is heard.

And the entire length of the reptilian inside

Which runs for exactly a hundred-and-five metres,

Heaves, pants, suffocates – and finally respires.

Every five metres, precisely every seven strides,

A steel arch ribs the breadth of the concaved gutter.

A long spine of neon lights like greyed corallite

Blanch the methacrylate of the floor, the tiles of the parietes.

It could be mourning, it could be right

In those long corridors beneath the cities.