Childhood
In this featureless landscape, with sands cornering in, not even a stork would make life meaningful. Stifling day, wilted grass, empty well . . . Dust clouds swallow rain clouds, but the eyes have become accustomed to the sand kites. A small, barefoot shadow makes her daily way to the old flowering acacia tree at the edge of the village, where the townsmen drop their rubbish. Her stroll is not a waste of time. Sometimes, under that tree, toys grow.
childhood —
two mismatched buttons
some doll’s eyes
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