parched wind, salt‑tongued
from the far edge of the bay,
licks the last drift of
mauve jacarandas.
in the tin‑roof blush,
heat simmers like held breath,
I hear the slow heartbeat of soil—
patient, cracked, still keeping
the memory of rain..
I walk the market’s narrow spine,
hands grazing mango skins,
the laughter of vendors lifting
like myna birds into a sky
just beginning to remember itself blue.
and when night comes,
the stars lean low
enough to touch my forehead—
reminding me this place
is both root and horizon,
a country that holds me
as much in absence as in light.
.