listening i cannot hear
deaf from the sound
of blood and water
sprayed into wind
looking i cannot see
blinded by hurt and sun
but now these Jacaranda
trees, stirring memory
wake me to feel
the cold evening
and the endless sky
here i am
born into waste land
and so i understood:
to stay.
i say: no.
i ask the wind:
take me.
i asked you.
now i ask myself.
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