The Water Tank, our rusted Lighthouse,
Overlooks seas of Brown
Faces pray for daily
Bronzed pennies counted under
Knit brows cast shade over desolate valleys
Sun-baked saplings blink at merciless rays.
A River crowns a small Eucalyptus grove, an aging parcel,
A relic buried at the foot of the cross.
Limbs sway on borrowed time,
Supported by drip lines,
A sponge along parched beds cradled by restless roads,
Black veins of life string together clay bodies.
Cursing wind kicks up ashes, rancor rising,
Reanimating ghosts' grudges settle again into powdery graves.
Livestock exhale sumptuous sweetness,
Notes of life leaven caked soles, flatten spiteful gravel,
Golden fields encircle narrow jutting ways,
fractured concerns implore guidance.
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