parched wind, salt‑tongued

from the far edge of the bay,

licks the last drift of

mauve jacarandas.

 

in the tin‑roof blush,

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.