Thickening leaves camouflage the hawk,
but he dares to be seen on the high dead branch.

Between the shadows and reeds
shifting shapes still

in vain. On the far road beings scurry past
Most are rain washed slashes

on motor bikes. In the nearby trees
birds settle. Most are crows pissed at intruders.

At dusk, men gather near the cowshed
seeking the comfort of dung cleansed air

and the discreet company of cows.
At the crossroads the last drunk

leans against a wall
weighing the odds of moving on

to nowhere
against the temptation to fall

and lie down here
on this comfy bed of garbage.

Free from his stones, curses
and kicking feet, dogs decide for him

then turn to the night
barking out claims and lifelong grievances.

Across town, on his back in a hospital bed
the heroic starving man breathes out

one last time
knowing by his will

his son’s murderers
will be tried.

Anywhere and everywhere
on this dying planet hurtling through space

with karma unrepentant,
is justice ever done?

In this high mountain fiefdom,
yes, fiefdoms of cliques and parties,

is justice ever done?


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