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:
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: