I hear a voice saying: escape

And leave this English isle behind

You belong to nothing except this ornate radio

Except the coffee pot

Except the garden trees outlined against the silky sky

I hear voices speaking in languages I know

And others I don’t:

Escape

And leave behind the dilapidated red buses

The rusty train tracks

This nation obsessed with morning work

This family which hangs a picture of capitalism in the living room as if it were its ancestor

Escape from this isle

There are only windows behind you

Windows as far as you can see 

Windows in daylight

Windows at night

Dull aspects for brightly-lit pain

Brightly-lit aspects for dull pain

And you hear the voices: escape

In all the city’s languages, residents are fleeing from their childhood dreams

From the scars of colonies that turned to cold signatures as their authors died

Those escaping have forgotten what they escaped from, too cowardly now to cross the street

They gather all their cowardice and scream:

Escape