Standing in silent depression,
Memories of bygone centuries weighing down
On their rocky shoulders.
They watch the water under the bridge;
As a great serpentine stream,
Struggles to wash it all.
All the lies, all the filth and all the accumulated waste of Progress and Development.
And neoliberalism colors the waters of Ganges.
I sit on the shoulders of giants;
Behind me a metropolis' heart beats,
Down in the sewers, and the gutters, and the slums;
Where its dearest families live.
And in front, ghost of an once voluptuous river;
Stinks of methane and gasoline.