The air is dust

and a tart cough of burning plastic,

through which the mountains of lush green loom;

onerous and wise in their calm.

Brown water puddles,

encased by the grass of the season,

on packed mud and scattered shards of concrete.

Cows, donkeys and lambs drag their feet

carrying slender bodies of jutting bone and

rib; they know their place beneath

smiles and sticks.

The road is a perfect, grey-black line

between the archaic stillness

of separation and fire.

Beauty is iron,

corroded and bent with

moisture in the air, rich

with the Hibiscus and blowing green scent.



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