Grassroots burning under our feet, singeing our heels
No water to dip our toes
Destruction and demolition
That’s how it goes.
They promise us something new, but the old isn’t all bad,
We’ve had enough happen
Left to rot in gay abandon
We’ll all move into the luxury apartments
If we can get a foot in the door.
This fresh start could mean no more lively arts,
A circus, a dead cat story
Only brings death, there’ll be no glory.
There’s no reason
Open season as corporates, councils, governments
They don’t know what the grassroots meant,
A starting point, we wait on the starting line
But the pistol aims at us
We’re not important, they’ll not make a fuss.
Transport to and from and through
Up over the viaduct, me travelling to you,
But you’re no longer there,
a decision, an incision to plague me
when my heart has known disappointment
the absence of a painting, a tune, a sculpture,
a plate of food becomes food for thought,
will it be enough?
Awakening, restoring, reviving
they’re unaliving
the very thing that holds my hands
when all others let go.
An alien;
I don’t figure, I don’t feature
In their estimations
The parameters of a land grab
They’ll find another back to stab.
No more kerbs left to kick
Their promise of treats, now turned into tricks.
Swings, roundabouts, revolving doors
Inquiries, consultations
I’ve heard it all before.
With footfalls failing
Our lives derailing
As we can’t busk outside
You pulled the concrete
From underneath
Confuse and confound
By the logistics, the statistics
From the skyline to the ground.
In Club Colette, repent, regret
As Luna Springs into action
She’ll catch The Night Owl as he glides over Trinity.
As for Mama, they’ll Roux the day they said her name,
The devil had a dog, but he went too,
The Mill is now XOYO,
Where do I go?
The independents deep amongst the changes
Red tape rearranges
My mind screams chaos
My world is horizontal
The creatives do their thing
Frame and fabric torn
Sit back and watch what will be reborn.
I’m wandering,
I’m wondering,
As I’m forced to carry what I would have set down
At The Warehouse full of broken dreams
Ruptured seams
Old habits die hard
Old haunts die harder
My options fading
Daylight saving
No grace for me.
They said reduce your footprint
But the carbon leaves a bitter taste.
It’s been said for years,
Simmering, drifting, no longer uplifting.
The vorpal blade is real and true
it cuts off the link from me to you.
A city on the line, on the ropes, on the brink,
Down to where the wire runs closer than you think.
To gentrify, to emulsify, to petrify, to deify,
To objectify, to nullify, leaving Digbeth high and dry
Creation, innovation, imagination, subsides,
Nowhere to run, less places to hide
To make Digbeth pretty, you’ve no idea,
The talent, the trades that all live here.
Turn up your noses, at what we cultivate,
Sign the paper and seal our fate.
Heritage, a word so precious,
protect and preserve
From tragedy to treason,
Don’t make Digbeth pretty for all the wrong reasons.
Azra Pathan ©2026