A landscape of straw dissolves into view.
Thatched sage hills reflect, looking
down upon the brick valley –
dank and dirty, dreadful,
the lights popping out one by one.
Failing to understand pollution,
purer than infants,
they breathe so easily.
Kissed by snow, gentle as a mother’s love,
unblemished by so many years.
Reaching out to the skies,
embracing the clean winds.
Little grandmothers judging from on high,
wondering whatever happened.
Longing for the sunset, to pretend all is well.