Manila, Black and White

dreams have no face in Manila;
only coins do.

people walk about without a trace
of a good morning kiss,
and scurries along septic walkways,
footbridges and the lazy man's lifts.

if dreams exist, they are sure to be found
behind closed eyes and the occasional
smile of a complete stranger in the train,
helping you get out of the crammed box.

when you're in Manila, never look up.
you'd be disappointed to see there's no sky,
only a gaping gray hole, a skullcap
on top of obscene towers and billboards.

and sleep never conquers Manila, oh no.
she passes on swift wings
never looking under dark bridges and skyways
where the restless ones wait
for her final gift of sleep.

the sun never really shines in Manila:
you never really see the sun rise in the east,
you never see it cross over your head,
nor hear his last departing sigh.

only the gray plume of amassed sin and smoke,
sits idly on the city,
and a thousand faceless dreams
deafeningly audible as a permanent hum.