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Fresh winds, biting
Crisp on cleanly shaven skin
Slowly they came
In hundreds, to begin with
Each with stories yet to happen.
Salt stinging, bleary blue eyes
Lungs filled, pure unused air,
Untouched
But with time, winds blew stronger
Ideals still fresh in their minds
Three months, no sight of land,
Hope is set in their hearts
Nothing can be worse than
The place they left.
Stained land
Of a thousand battles
Borrowed from ancestors
The past ingrained in
The forests of time,
Cut down, destroyed.
A dusty road
Now fills this space,
Twisted signs,
Direct, instruct, demand
No spiritual rituals
No tribal gatherings
Ancient burial grounds
Sell groceries,
Tacky artefacts mock
Their ethnic origins,
Great-ancestors turning
In their graves
A thousand stories
This place whispers
Between now and then
Secrets of things yet to come
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katherine watson
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