a melancholic green

Even the leaves in this city are melancholic, sad, drooping, depressed. their green is a grumpy old woman, hardened over the years, sour, hostile. there is no smell, there is not the soft touch. they are no eye balm. they do not soothe or seduce, unlike the lush green reed of grass that i have tucked away between the pages of my book, beyond the reach of forgetfulness and the blurring touch of memories. when i whisper in their ears, they do not giggle with excitement, or nudge each other in mischief. they do not even nod in agreement. they are cold. cold as winter nights. cold as only death can be. a cold blue dead body. not the cold of home-made ice creams or the cube of ice that slips down the nape of my naked back. they are a hardened lot, through years of aggression, violence, enimity, corruption, killing, bloodshed. they are witnesses. silent ones. the ones who have turned hostile. they do not crave for love anymore. like sluts whose sexuality and tenderness have drained out by an act of violence for which castration is the only punishment, next to death by slow torture. they are not the virgins, those untouched by love or violence, warmth seeping through their veins, arteries, blood vessels, seducing the soul, the body, me. into misery they are born as into a brothel, a slum, a war-torn world. they do not want my touch, my smile, me. they just exist. and they will die. i am the witness who screams.