Sketch - 1
The rebel weeps.
The anti-hero, hated by his own men now,
Thinks about his mum.
Sweat on his forehead even in a winter night
The morning dew accumulates like pearls on the rifle.
The middle-class man, he's drinking cheap whiskey.
He's fried an egg for that,
He starts watching the evening news, nods his drunk head, burps like a sick pariah dog.
The heartbroken tramp walks alongside the racecourse
He wants to go back to the city before sunset,
He searches for a fragment on his heart that seems he was born without?
Meanwhile, someone's getting tattooed with an illustration of jasmine flowers,
The machine buzzes, little by little, ink seeps like poison, gets under the skin.
It gets cloudy now, the sky is deep blue. Will rain soon.
The street dogs notice that.
They'll be searching for shelter now.
The middle-class man, now has his bottle emptied.
TV blaring, he hugs his wife, and dozes off.
He finds warmth!!
It starts raining.
Someone's stuck in the tattoo parlor,
The artist girl offers him tea.
The tramp pulls out rags, huddles off in the shadows, and the street dogs sniff him.
And, yes, the rebel gets sniffed out too. He's shot at the back of his head, dragged out of the forest like a dog.
"Hunted down like a dog", the officials say. They grin, too, because it's whiskey time now.
It starts to rain like crazy, with hailstones, now.
Somewhere, machines detect tremor, the earth shakes.
The middle-class man wakes up.
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