As the winds howl, your name suspends itself in my mind, Allen Ginsberg,
aching my bones with the gravity of a myriad of mothers.
The clouds cloak the ever sulking sun but light is an avid dreamer
for its red and blue hues seem to dance in perpetuity.
In my daze I strolled alongside my kinsmen, arriving
at a convenience store smelt of inconvenience.
The usual assortment lured my eyes.
What knickknacks and jawbreakers! Oh how the air conditioner swathes me in its familiar embrace! Toy guns raised! Music in torrential pours! I swore I caught a glimpse of the spirit of Countee!
Succeeding my accustomed jaunt, solar rays erupted
and I was blinded by a harsh white.

Your form manifested, Ginsberg, Beatnik, howler of verity
and you marched me down the Jessore Road
and all I heard was your rough-hewn voice
singing of millions of babies in pain, millions of brothers in woe.
Soon a murmur arose, then a clamor, then a booming obtrusion.
But perplexity struck me for these were not the squalls of the Bengalis.
You led me forward and raised a chorus of “Moloch! Moloch, Moloch, Moloch! The dregs have fermented and I have seen insignia contort! Their tongues flicker hither and thither, never in the same direction, and they raze the air with hollowed sockets!”
But I did not understand your outburst.

Where do we go from here, Allen Ginsberg? Where exactly is here? This does not seem like the land where I've been begotten (colours eddy around me but only the reds tinge the clod).
Where is America’s present? Why am I in this position?
You look down at me and only shake your head.
Incited by your dismay, I continued to march forever onward (now the whites clog my vision, pricking my skin).
Ah, colourful graybeard, for now it is you, shall we waltz?
We are in such a somber little depression. We must find a loftier location to rest in!
With our hands having been joined, together we strode, hoping to find something better.