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.





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