Thoughts on a cold winter morning (a poem to promote general strikes)

Snow falls heavy, creates a blanket like to cover our thoughts
Minus 18 degrees: weather for some workers’ sports.
Once again I join the station, yet to see the metro’s back
The screen shows: still six minutes left until the next.

Free seats are available only at the end of the station’s hall,
On a seat next to two homeless men, I let my tired body fall.
Thoughts are covered by the little warmth the tunnel reflects
I check out the screen: still four minutes to wait informs its text.

Try not to wake them up, or the old dog sleeping on the ground,
Resting, wrapped up in two blankets a little warmth he found
No image of peace, but a crime, committed by man’s greed
The ‘Proles’ taxi’ arrives and I hurry to get up on my feet.

Our lives are hollow echoes ruled by the metro’s beat
Clocks set up our rhythm, paint dark pictures on a sheet –
Vanishing lifetime, swallowed by meaningless deeds
Chase us to work, to serve a few fat cats’ selfish needs.

Metro spits out a never ending supply chain of little cogs
Lined up, each on two legs, eyes wide starring like frogs,
Should I really only exist to keep that big machine running?
Cogs on general strike?! – I stop – That thought’s simply too stunning!