He holds his pen, poised, sedulous, For the tarmac conflict, to strip His dreams from bloody, circuitous Biers of thrift; his sweaty grip Wavering under the red, fermented Smell of clay - monsoon soaked - Beneath the gray outside, shirted With the overwhelming, cloaked Odour of gutters overflowing - As with the shreds of limpid sunlight - In conflict, he senses the burgeoning Night through his forty-watt sight.