I remember the green grass and golden paddy fields
Somewhere in the distance a diesel engine chugs, idlingHaving pumped gallons of water into the partially thirsty cracking earth
It seems to be catching a breath, as if tired due toiling all noon
The smell of its fumes is familiar, cities may change but diesel remains
The idling pistons sound like galloping horses running free
Off the bonds of saddles and no hurried rush towards much
Painted a shade of tourmaline green, I identify perfect shades
The fabric of this dream is dyed in angst, in a touch of yellow
The fabric of this dream has died it's last, in a hint of iron oxidised in blood
For the lack of breaths that no longer enrich what flows through me
The fabric of ours torn asunder, in nonchalant symphony
As I scribe this walking amongst the abrasive leaves of the green paddy
I sigh and wish you were waiting, beside the diesel pump waving at me
This depreciation of a dream that felt holistic now feels empty due wish
I walk alone through the flooded canal, and wade through thinking of you
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