I hear a voice addressing me: escape
And leave the English isles behind you
You belong to nothing except this ornate radio
Except the coffee-pot 
Except the garden’s trees outlined on the silky sky 
And I hear voices speaking in languages that I know
And others that I do not:
And leave behind you 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 during daylight
Windows at night 
Dull aspects for brightly-lit pains 
Brightly-lit aspects for dull pains
And you hear the voices:
In all languages of the city’s residents, fleeing their childhood dreams
From the pains of colonies that turned into cold signatures as their authors died. 
Those escaping forgetting what they have escaped from, too cowardly now to cross the street
They gather all their cowardice and scream:

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