Path after path lay stones meshed on top of each other,
Four odd firm trees towering above the wooden house;
Fit and fought for fourty years, after demonstrations and blinded attacks,
Now eerily tranquil with fabricated striped flags.
Rich golden arches, invoking nostalgia and memories,
A grey beard, unmistakenly the Grandfather;
yet no one is walking, barely touching the streets,
on plastic tires, and concrete roads, passing one after the other.
Sunrays beam violence on the flesh,
waterways burgle sounding their hunger;
crossing paths with strangers, avoiding an expected crash,
cycling through crooked pavements and sharp turns.
The longer the ride, the longer the journey,
inching closer and closer to the neighbourhood;
couples perfecting their picket fences with fine polish – which one notices,
yet dogs of pride bare a smile next to their owners.
The mountains look deceptively near, yet they are not,
Pine tree after pine tree, one cone drops at a time;
then like sandstorm hurling in one direction – towards me,
Escaping nature, going deeper and deeper into the woods.
Vine leaves climb higher and higher across the fence,
painting Matisse with their structures and bones;
bearing unashamedly their skeletons and ownership of the wall,
camouflaging their presence against the wild backdrop.
The unexpected protagonist takes a selfie, blocking the way,
Unstoppable races passby, taking them by surprise;
knocking them slightly to the left,
A gush of wind and sense of urgency in the air.
Then the bird sings, sounding the close of a day,
picking up the laughters of families and friends;
ushering the squirrels back to their underground caves and inviting the birds back to their nests,
Tomorrow will come another day.
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|Eyes in the sky|