A foul industrial miasma
pierces my every sense
My eyes water
My nose burns
My tongue recoils
The sour wind dries out my skin
Its whistling deafens me
Atop this skeletal tower
The yellow clouds obscure
the places we knew
From the dying depths
these rusty structures rise
Dried out by the air
Preserved in decay
And at the end of the day
all the towers will fall
The sour wind grows cold
The sun in its sickening veil
descends behind the dead horizon
Our dry and putrid cityscape
is bathed in cleansing darkness
so we can forget about
this sorry mess we created
this unfavourable place
