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On September dawn
they will come upon us
In slow massive confidence
Over and above the bowled green hills
Roasting our lips
Cracked in frost
like lines drawn by birds
– Thirty-two involuntary banter
No skin is spared
Painted in rumpled white
We’d prefer to be drenched in steamy waters
When the walking harmattanHarmattan
suffuse our land


Author: admin

I am a member of the WRR editorial team.

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