Weather is just the child of tilt,
A season made cruel by angles,
Arbitrary physics and accretion,
We brought no shelter with us,
And fell to sleep in a bitter wind,
Which raced itself across the dunes,
Bringing singing, stinging sand,
In graceful curves to landfall,
To drift like snow immune to sun,
And the speakers crack the air,
With all that is approved and true,
Bouncing the grit in resonance,
Twisting it to dry, bleak graphs,
Of how society is constructed,
In the ministries of maths,
It's just statistics to them now,
A section of us labelled red,
And sanctioned to despair,
And so the world orbits more,
One further arc of history,
Spitting the river in our faces,
It is bleak for those forgotten,
Those dropped like dry ballast,
To let some ascend without thought,
In another quarter turn in space,
They'll be no more than dust,
And memories.