Summer Days

Gold Incan summer days Wildwood breeze Flowers and decay We're old tigers Sleeping in the sun Dreaming of the hunt We were hunters once Wild and free Before this city life Wage slavery Familiar to our gods Northern in our ways Grey Stockholm housing blocks Wet cement The grimy city clock Bright plastic seats On the empty tram Shuffle off to work Blank staring at the screen Key clicks sound The endless drudgery Push back the chair Out into the hall Exit to the stairs Laugh and smoke a cigarette She whispers close "they haven't tamed us yet" Watch from the roof Dirty seagulls fly 100 feet below