MusingsPoetry

It’s Hot

Clear sky,
Sun and hot,
Wind but hot.
The sweet of your air is gone,
You cry salt.
Our bodies sweat salt,
We are in pain.
Diseases and hunger chat with us,
We can’t sit on your swing,
It’s hot.

We cut down your roots of rain
And laugh with paper.
We call it improvement,
Especially economical development,
To the pregnant pockets of paper.

It’s art,
Drawing the earth without trees,
They call it discovery,
Even when it’s full of smoke.
Portrait without rain formation,
Are all over the walls,
Decorations of houses without a shade.
It’s a global stove,
The cook of modern life.

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