Side effects

The mud stays these days
it makes its way upwards, a centimeter each day
it has reached the foot of the houses, made its presence known while the city sinks lower
into its claws. Earth smells prudent yet it reeks mud, a sure sign to the end of times.
It doesn't change much at the playgrounds,
there is less grass but not enough muck can curb feet from playing
 the lost boys, march onward to mud they will return.

In the last three months they have seen an incredible rise
in dirt and water, inseparable. There isn't enough dirt to seed,
there isn't enough water to sip, one seeks the tops of trees these days
only leaves cup their hands to save the drops
for the competition of birds and boyhood
There's an abundance of unwanted  material:
there's leftover sand from the shore, brick  and shredded windows, the stench of iron remains
but the lack of basics is essential:
the city is grey and brown

The faces are grey and brown,
no interludes of rest,  wood and ashes are the same
wood makes ashes and ashes blend in mud, to cement the bases of houses
and the foundation of the hungry, cold faces of children
roaming the fields for sunshine and for hairdryers
they scavenger the grounds for heat-
their faces have colored, grey with clouds and brown with mud
it is not just rain here, it is the end of times
and the boys with grey shirts and brown faces still play
to mud they will return.

Mud is a side effect of rain, of summer's typhoon after the bombs. Moments past the smoke, you see the screams and the bodies. You notice the rebel, the rubble but not the clouds with bellies of rain.
I certainly cannot foresee the forming of ash, slowly
nor the brown faces drained
I see blankets for roofs, and hear tin clanking
refuge and alternative homelands are another side-effect, of the eternal floods
 tents that are perched here shelter the children
from possible pain.

I lean to one of the grey faces, a child of four years of typhoon,
I ask him his wishes for the new year. He smile and points to where the mud cements
three walls that are left standing against the wind
Here stands the foundation of a house
didn't humans first build their houses from mud?

in front of my eyes, the lost boys rescue an elder from a fall
in a pond of sweat and poking screws, I avoid the man's eyes
instead focus on the blob of brown on my red boots,
I am dirty for my lack of movements, who cares?
to mud we all return or possibly to ash, eventually
Is there someone looking at us beyond the grey?
who closes the open taps in heaven
when the angels weep for too long?