It is raining; mists unfurl
out of rainbow trees, soaked
hills and mountainous blues, houses
weigh under territories, the cold is steeped in comatose
clothes as stalkers look away, walk away without hindrance.
For long these hills have snatched disbelief in tremors, tacitly
brushing odoriferous pines, skies
fall out of silent winter,
spring or summer.
The cracked rocks stand heavy, forked, witness to
seasons, as fireflies of discontent hum tunes
in this evening town, of murmur.
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