I long for that sound one more time,
Like the sound of a bubble gum
Clapping between the teeth of an amateur.
Like the cry of a child longing for
The relief that flows from the breast.
Like the roughness of a tongue dying
To be smoothened with the drop of life.
I was born on this soil, the land that
Shines brightest at day and runs into
Hiding at the mention of night.
The Winds rejuvenating.
The tars burning.
The clouds hosting its feast of crusade
Just to dance on our skin as we watch.
With our eyes, we gaze at loners as they
Spread their seeds across.
And our gates bruised with the knocks of the plague we fear.
We have ran out of drug to this illness as
Our dermis fade slowly with the wind of the north.
Just like Oliver Twist, all I ask for is more.