In the midst of this desert, burning hearts like a passenger ride the train of change. It tilts, upending in the blood of my kin. Country men, children fighting for their fathers’ rights. They trekked all night, infants in soles of iron. Heartache and sulphur fills their chest. Burning their screams fill my ocean with dread for my country whose peace like a fruit once blossomed has ripened to decay. Singing, I’m reminded of a toll gate that eases traffic. That is meant to protect the citizens from outsiders charging in. A python, my country rises on its hind legs and eats itself. Sulphur and iron burn her throat from the avalanche she has set off, the volcano she ignited. Children everywhere are wearing old men boots and I’m starting to get used to the crunch of age set off by their stamp of rage. Dead things, leaves, line their feet. Crunch! The revolution drowns. And I feel within that sepulcher the sobs of my country men begging for bread in a land full of wheat. Begging to live, to be fed from the bowels they filled. I hear a mother mutter absolutions to her household gods. I see a brother lick his tears with his lips and cry out loud. In my dreams, I see a woman eat her feet and bury her seedlings from impending harm. But her garden is filled with termites. She left it all, her only hope, only to watch it eaten by her enemies. Uncovered and unarmed silenced in their youth.