by Nick Gisburne
The scream of sirens never seems to stop,
A sound of sweet importance to the plan,
To mask the crash of cables as they drop,
To sink inside the irrigation span.
The aqueduct, the lifeline of the state,
Brings water, channelled freely, to the rich,
While those below, the proles and peasants, wait
For tainted rains to fill a dirty ditch.
The cables cause a tremor, barely felt.
The sentinels who see are quickly shot.
A surge of power. Miles of metal melt,
And water floods the fortuned, boiling hot.
No better now than those they most detest,
Unwashed, unclean, as dirty as the rest.
