In the magnificent buses
the voices of commuters come like
an outpouring of ants walking up dead bodies
unlike it is when their voices
respond tiredly to someone calling for prayer
It isn’t everyone who wants
to stop it is like dissolving
powder heaped on spoons and everything
one has struggled for is gone

The new moths are birthing already
and the recovered moons
are revisiting but no one is crying
no one is wise to sense it

The mills are getting old with rust
and the seeds of dead farmers
fetch the palm fronds quickly
make them into brooms
the king is returning
and the first rains might as well
adorn his feet before the news
like a dark mantle of locusts

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