The tapping of the soles of my brown shoes
Dies a dull death as the ground meets them
Charred, charred the ground beneath moves
Pushing me ahead, promising me salvation ahead.
All through the valley, scattered wide
The stench assaults my nostrils, of burning flesh
From the bodies of a once-haughty tribe,
They were trapped, the tribe clasped, it engulfed.
Brought along the burning on its back
A smell so cloying, like an incubus’ call
Almost, I turned around, to fall into its trap
Determination against addictions, almost unheard of.
The cloves beckoned me, for the bodies still
Carried them burning in their fried mouths,
Fried lungs that stopped breathing
Much before their time was out.
And yet I walked on, paying no attention
To skin that peeled off like burnt paper
Or is it paper that flakes off like burnt skin?
Would He even recognize us, the Maker?
Walked on till the mouth of the valley
There was no promised salvation, only an emptiness
All I knew had given in to the cloves’ delicious fury
With the world gone, I was left to be taken by loneliness.
And I heard the cloying beckoning me again
Come back to the valley
We have cloves here
We have what you want here.