On the streets of luxury - beyond the gardens of graves - lies a building,
Tall, sturdy, hard.
Engraved with glasses of wealth,
Splattered with corpses of commodities,
A nauseating stench permeates each perforation of its shiny surface.
Just outside its iron bars of privilege,
Paragraphs of poverty - punctuated with the commas of brute deaths - are written with blood and body.
Adjacent to the barbed wires surrounding the numb, sclerotic walls,
Lie the rickety legs and malformed bones of penury-eaten children -
Enrobed in the torn clothes of tear-blistered mothers.
The building - founded on the scaffolding of workers' sweat - looks at the glutinous muck of misery around itself,
Sure of its ugly existence as a spigot of wretchedness.