The River Flows East

Behind the houses, a deep tear in the earth, a permanent scar,
a memory of the past, “ten million white workers have been
abandoned by political leaders and are voiceless, for now.”
This sentence flashes through my mind, as I climb down this hole in the earth.

Petrified bushes and crippled trees, ghosts of a time of plenty now covered
in pale talcum; hot and arid no breeze blows through here to shift the dust.

A river flowed here I pick up a smooth flat stone it burns my
hand and leaves a crimson irate mark; twigs split, once big
yellow cats lived here preying on antelopes that came to drink;
whoever is watching me now, doesn’t wish me well.