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.