In the heart of the old city
Tarmac cracked
Road edge ruts deepen by truck tyres
Where puddles brown and still
Skaters perturb.
Almost everyone is black or brown
And Chinese men busy themselves
Hovering around concrete machines
Holding rods and binding wires
And strap pincers and hammers
To their chinos pants;
Wore yellow plastic helmets
And boots.
There is a beehive of works
In no distant future a new town
Will be born
And a new bank account
Will float and bloat in Switzerland
Both new colonizers will smile away
At least a new town is born.
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